


Taking Leaps (and the falls that come with them)

by Kamomile_Tea



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Coming of Age, Foster Care, Gen, Homeless Peter Parker, Homelessness, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Marvel Cameos, Mental Health Issues, Mild Language, Not Spider-Man: Homecoming Compliant, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prison, Redemption, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2020-10-07 22:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20469329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamomile_Tea/pseuds/Kamomile_Tea
Summary: All across New York City the boroughs are crying out with one voice, asking a question everyone wants the answer to.Where is Spiderman?But no one is asking about Peter Parker.So, he sits alone. Contemplating how his life could have gone so downhill. Grief and nausea well up in his chest and the boy quickly shoves it back down. A shiver courses through him as the cold November air seeps into the building and through his thin clothing. And on the back of his navy blue overshirt, in blocky, white letters, reads the words:CROSSROADS JUVENILE CENTERBROOKLYN NYINMATE 3042==========The world seems content with ignoring this young teen. That is, until Tony Stark shows up and asks him if he wants to go to Germany.





	1. Inmate 3042

When Peter Parker had first gotten to the Center - he refused to call it prison - he had been terrified. The nervousness and nausea had his hands shaking and he could barely change into the clothes given to him. It was a simple uniform. A white undershirt and navy blue vest that frayed at the seams, telling him that many kids had worn this same thing before, and many kids would after him.

He’d kept his eyes on the cement ground, counting in his head. One two three four…

Three hundred…

Three hundred sixty…

Three hundred sixty-five.

A whole year. That’s peanuts compared to the grand scheme of life. And yet… he couldn’t escape the feeling that it was more than that. That his year here wouldn’t be as simple as counting down the hours. In a couple days Peter Parker would realize just how true this was. The Center was rough and his main goal became keeping his head down.

==========

Present Day

A buzzer shrieks across the entire building at 5:00 am, loud and jarring. In prison block C, cell forty, a brown haired boy with dark smudges under his eyes bolts up and scrambles up from his cot. Pain laces through his skull at the shrill sound and he resists the urge to cover his ears.

Three other kids mirror his actions, two of them jumping from their top bunks and landing with a thud onto the ground. Each one turns back to their beds and, with practiced motions, fix the coarse covers into place. Peter is careful to make sure nothing is out of order, he doesn’t need another morning with the warden yelling at him. It isn’t long before the boys are finished and standing at attention near their beds, arms straight at their sides.

Peter’s ears ache, but it’s nothing he isn’t used to. So he grits his teeth and waits in silence. Soon enough the heavy, metal door opens up with a clang and reveals an older man with graying hair. His shoulders are broad and his skin is lined with light wrinkles from stress and age. He wears a light grey, button up shirt with a stiff, black tie. On his belt is a radio, a pair of cuffs, and a metal baton. Displayed proudly on his chest is a silver badge. Stubble covers his face and roughly frames his stony, grey eyes. These eyes scan the boys with a critical gaze before turning to check the room, looking for any concealed items.

The moment feels like it’s stretching forever. Peter can feel the man’s gaze burn into him and he tenses up, breath catching in his throat. After what is probably a minute, but feels much much longer, the warden finally speaks up, “Go on to breakfast.”

Then the man turns around and leaves the cell for the next one and everyone collectively relaxes. Without a word the four inmates file out of their cell and join the rest of the juvie boys in the Big Hall - the nick name for the cell blocks. Peter’s cell is on the second floor and he looks over the metal railing and at the hard, concrete floor below. He swallows a little, his adams apple bobbing in his throat. Dark stains were blotched over the ground from times inmates had jumped over the rail. 

A couple months ago a boy, only two years older than him, had somehow gotten his hands on some cocaine. He was flying as high as a kite and was close to overdosing when the officers got to him. Peter had watched in horror as the boy laughed in hysteria. He ran from the staff’s grasp and up the stairs, screaming profanities and insults at the top of his lungs. The boy giddily shouted out, “I’m on top of the world!” before spreading his arms, as if to fly, and toppling over the railing…

Peter tears his eyes away from the ugly stain and from the memory of that day. It made him sick, knowing that Spiderman could have helped that boy, but Inmate 3042 couldn’t. His stomach protests as he walks down the stairs. He’s not sure if it’s from hunger or guilt, but tiredness forces him to drop the thought before it can even begin.

No need to go down that spiral again…

He funnels through the tight squeeze of boys in the Big Hall, making his way out the doors and into a sterile, white hallway. The sound of hundreds of boys walking across the linoleum floor fill his ears and bright, white lights irritate his eyes. The rough fabric of his clothing itches him and the smell of chemicals and sweat causes him to gag. Peter feels anxiety crawl through him, inching its way into his stomach and crushing his lungs. Every morning a sensory overload threatens him. His body goes into overdrive at the screaming alarm, his stress when the warden comes in is turned into adrenaline, and it dials his vision, hearing, and even taste, up to eleven. And every morning he’s got to stuff it down before he goes into a panic attack.

Because, y’know, panic attacks don’t go over well with the other kids. Showing weakness here will make your life hell.

Peter forces his eyes down to the ground and ignores the thundering sounds as best as he can. He slows his breathing and lets air in through his mouth. He can’t do much about the harsh touch of his clothes so he tries to get his mind off of it.

One Two Three Four…

One hundred… 

One hundred thirty… 

One hundred thirty-nine.

He has gone two hundred twenty six days in the Center and only has one hundred thirty nine left to go. 

'Good. That's good.' Peter thinks to himself. His senses settle back down in his mind and the boy breathes a silent sigh of relief. It's like a coolness has spread through his body after hours of burning, soothing every aching cell.

By the time he’s calm he is in the lunch line, robotically reaching for the tray and grabbing it in steadier hands. The food isn’t much to look at. Watery scrambled eggs with a gray undertone to it and a couple green beans. Peter gets his water and fork before walking over to the table he always sits at. One of his roomates sits down in front of him and a few other boys join. Peter notices with little interest that a new face has come to the table. Black hair and pale skin, light blue eyes and a small, skinny frame. His vest labels him as Inmate 2901. Nothing special and nothing that screams danger. But Peter isn’t one to judge a book by it’s cover, he’s made that mistake enough times in his life.

As conversation gradually picks up in the Mess Hall one of the older boys from cell block A - Juan Rodriguez, Inmate 1560 - sets his eyes on the new boy. Peter sees the glint in the guy’s eyes and frowns a little before going back to his meal.

“Haven’t seen you before.” Rodriguez says, gaining the attention of the rest of the table.  
The new boy looks up, wide eyed. Peter can’t help but wonder if that was how he looked when he first got here. After a few seconds the boy schools his features and speaks up, “Yeah, I just got here yesterday night. You?”

Rodriguez scowls, “What did you do?” he says, completely ignoring the boy’s questions. 

If Peter had to guess he would say that the older teen is trying to show dominance by controlling the conversation. He’d find this stupid if the technique didn’t work so well on so many of the new kids. Show them that you’re the boss and they won’t try to mess with you later on, when they inevitably got bored.

But this time the new kid loses some of his composure and narrows his eyes, dropping his timid persona completely. “I asked you a damn question.” the boy grits out through clenched teeth. 

The switch between nervous to angry is so fast it would have given Peter whiplash if he hadn’t already seen it before. A lot of kids here have issues. Some have short fuses, others are just plain crazy. One second a kid can be laughing, then the next he’ll be trying to stab you with a fork. So Peter tends to mainly keep to himself around those people. Well, he keeps to himself most of the time, anyways, but especially with the rogue ones.

The rest of the table looks back to Rodriguez who leans in and mutters, “So did I… but if you won’t answer me I’ll tell you what I did to get in.” The teen leers down at the new boy, face contorting into an ugly grin, “I robbed a pawn shop and stabbed the owner.”

This might have given Peter the chills if he didn’t know the truth. But he does know the truth and has to suppress a snort because of it. Rodriguez uses that line on every new guy who sits down here, including Peter himself. 

Truth is, the boy had drunk one too many bears and went out with some buddies to vandalize their school. The boy pissed all over the doorway before leaving for his apartment, not bothering to pull up his pants. The result was a killer hangover and a year and a half in juvie for underage drinking, trespassing, vandalism, and public indecency. The sentence would’ve been easier if he was a first time offender, but sadly he had been in and out of juvie for years now.

But the new kid doesn’t know that and just shakes his head, eyes widening in fear again before he grabs his tray and stands up, “You’re crazy…!” He whisper shouts before turning to leave.

Peter sees the other teen smile, satisfied with his work at scaring away the new boy, “Heh, yeah you run _kiddie_.” Rodriguez laughs to himself before focusing back down at his food.

For a second Peter wants to sigh in relief, it looks like the kid is leaving and the older teen won’t be tormenting him anymore. But in a split second that shatters as his Spidey sense screams out a warning, urging him to move. Peter slides out of the way and watches with wide eyes. Time seems to slow down as the new kid, who looks as young as fourteen, turns around in a flash and throws his tray at Rodriguez. It hits him with a sickening thud and he lets out a string of curses, hands grasping a bleeding nose. The boy is already rushing to the table before his tray can hit the ground, he’s vaulting over the surface, reaching out with his hands and grasping at Rodriguez’s throat. The two go toppling down in seconds and punches start flying.

The entire hall goes silent before erupting in shouts and mayhem. Dozens of boys scramble up from their seats, crowding the two and cheering.

FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT

BEAT HIM

HELL YEA GET HIM GET HIM

Anxiety hits Peter like a bulldozer as the mob of rowdy teens swallow him in their ranks. He pushes his way through the crowd and to the front. The smell of blood and sweat hits him. His arm twitches, two fingers folding in, aiming of their own accord. But no webs come out to stop the fight. Even if he wanted to help, he has long since left behind his shooters and his webs. And getting involved would be bad for him if he wanted any hope of getting parole.

His attention focuses back on the fight as he hears the new boy shouting. His words reek of frustration and Peter can't stop himself from flinching at the raw emotion

“My name is Aaron, not _kiddie_! Got that?! I don’t take shit from anybody!”

Aaron pummels Rodriguez. Each punch sounds like a bullet and a sickening crack rings in Peter’s ears. The older boy flails his arms, grasping the teen above him and shoving him off. He scrambles to his feet, a hazy look in his eyes from the pain and shock. Then his gaze finds Aaron, who’s pushing himself up from the floor, and his face screws up into anger.

“You son of a bitch!” Rodriguez shouts out.

Peter knows what’s going to happen before Rodriguez even thinks it. A voice in the back of his mind screams at him to do something. To stop this. But his feet remain planted firmly to the ground and his heart sinks further and further.

With horror he watches Rodriguez charge towards the downed boy. The crowd ripples with chaos, they jeer and shout and Peter can’t breathe. The world spins as Rodriquez rams into Aaron and the smaller teen’s body goes flying into a hard metal table. Peter hears the tearing and the pop before the pain can even register in the new boy’s mind. The boy crumples to the ground, clutching his shoulder and staring at it with wide eyes before turning his shocked gaze to the boy on top of him.

Rodriguez backs up, face red and gasping for air. He clutches his crooked and bleeding nose. When his hand comes away from his face it’s bathed in bright, alarming red. Peter chokes on the metallic taste that hangs in the air, almost tasting it. 

From the corner of his eye he sees a quivering movement. Aaron’s good arm reaches up and grapples with the table top. His legs strain under him as he struggles to get up. Rodriguez watches with wary eyes as the boy gains his footing. The boy makes no noise, no acknowledgement of the pain he’s in. Peter has no doubt that his shoulder has been dislocated, and he knows that it hurts. But Aaron barely lets out a sound other than his labored breathing.

Suddenly, Aaron is sprinting at Rodriguez and the other teen barely has time to dodge. He dives to his right but Aaron is already following him, pulling back his uninjured arm and swinging. The punch hits the teen’s stomach, knocking out all air from the boy. Rodriguez reels back for a few seconds and Aaron takes the chance to swing again. But the older teen puts his arms up and blocks the punch before delivering his own. They’re exchanging blows and Peter knows it’s going to be nasty.

Aaron is erratic, but experienced. He dodges and swings with no rhythm, yet each movement is made with trained movements. But his injury is leaving him weak, even if he isn’t showing any pain. Still, this isn’t just some street fighting, it’s real defensive and offensive moves. Something Peter hasn’t seen often, but would recognize anywhere. 

Rodriguez is bigger though, being a tall and wide boy who you would expect to be on a football field. So his hits do more damage. There’s no technique, but that doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. But, Peter notices, he’s not hitting as often as he could, instead choosing to dodge or push Aaron away.

Shouts can be heard in the background, growing closer with every second. “Out the way! No fighting! Move! Move! Move!” 

The thick circle of teens shift and Peter knows that the show’s almost over. He lets out a sigh of relief as multiple officers push through the crowd of teens and rip the two apart.

Rodriguez is panting, slumped in the grip of a warden and another cop. Aaron isn’t in great shape, but he’s better off. It isn’t long before he’s straightening his back and calming his breath. In less than a minute he’s composed, even with blood dripping from his busted lip and sweat covering his face. The young teen looks smugly down at the other inmate, not even slightly concerned with his dislocated shoulder or the guards placing cuffs on him.

“W-what…” Rodriguez gasps out and coughs out some blood, “What the hell is wrong with you!”

The other boy’s smirk falls away and the fire in his eyes dims, “Everything.”

The crowd riles up in the way only mobs made up of teenage boys can do. They scream and shout and boys pump up their fists, yelling anything between insults to support. The warden hands over his grip on Rodriguez to another officer. With a few words the two boys are hauled out of the Mess Hall and the crowd quiets down a little at the warden’s furious look.

“All of you sit your asses down right now and finish your fucking food! I want no more fighting for the rest of today! Not even a word comes out of any of your mouths!”

The inmates scramble back to their trays, a few muttering curses on their way, but otherwise stay silent. Inmate 3042 finds his way back to his tray without a word, wrists aching and poison-like emotion curling up in the pit of his stomach.

Just another thing to be added to his growing guilt.


	2. Another Life

After the fight the entire Mess Hall had finished their food quickly. Despite the warden’s warnings the boys still whispered to one another. They placed bets on who would get in the most shit with the counselors and joked about Rodriguez. ‘_All bark and no bite_’ they had said. ‘_Guy had it coming_’.

Peter had kept his head down during the whole affair, focusing on his meal. The only time he spoke up was to ask his roomate, Quincy Davis Inmate 3041, for his untouched food. The boy was nicer than the rest, or at least as nice as you could be here, and nodded before sliding his tray over. No one batted an eye at this, it wasn’t uncommon for the scrawny, brown haired teen to ask for more food.

Now, though, Peter sits on the benches outside, eyes closed and raised to the sun. He breathes in the fresh air, feeling the wind breeze across his face as the smell of dried bark surrounds him. The sounds of the other boys are distant for now. He hears the sound of a ball being dribbled, of laughter, and of conversation. In another life these noises could have been from students laughing during their lunch break. Maybe Ned and MJ would still be sitting by his side, and he’d be talking to them about some dumb movie that just came out. He and Ned wouldn’t shut up, going on and on without seemingly taking a breath. They’d make science puns and freak out over Star Wars, all while MJ draws them in her notebook, a smirk on her face.

Maybe they’d be cheering after winning an academic decathlon meet. Peter would know every single chemistry question. Ned would shoot out answers to all the technology ones. And MJ would know literature and art like the back of her hand. They would all go out to Delmar’s to celebrate. MJ would get on his case for his “unorthodox choice of a sub” - which was just a large sandwich with any and all toppings on it - before smiling and saying something like, “I like it, it’s a small but acceptable show of not being a mindless follower to society.” Ned would snort and MJ would look at him with her best unimpressed look. Peter would hide his smile behind his drink and pretend like he wasn’t about to laugh. They’d spend the rest of the day in peace, laughing and just being kids…

“Hey.”

…No crime. No worries…

“Hey, Hush Puppy!”

Suddenly, the small little world Peter’s made comes crashing down. He frowns before opening his eyes. He’s not in Delmar’s and he’s not winning any competitions with his friends. He’s surrounded by two concrete walls and two chain link fences, rotting benches dot the courtyard, and teenagers in white and navy uniforms do their best to ignore the ever present gaze of the guards.

He looks up at the boy who’s looming over him, blocking the sunlight and casting Peter in shadow, “What do you want Quincy?” Peter asks with a little irritation.

The tall, dark skinned boy grins, “What’s got ya all dreamy? I had to call ya like five times to get your attention.”

Peter rolls his eyes before scooting over on the bench, leaving room for Quincy to sit down. The boy takes the spot, stretching out his long legs and leaning back with a casual ease.

“You only called me twice.”

Quincy shoots him a smirk, “So you did hear me the first time around! You were just ignoring me. That’s not very nice of ya Hush Puppy.”

Peter can’t help but let out a laugh, the tension of the day melting from his shoulders, “Ah, guess you caught me… I was really ignoring you all along in my plan to get you to go away.”

There's no bite in his words, though. Talking to Quincy is always nice. He’s the only one Peter has allowed himself to get to know and vice versa. From what he’s gathered, Quincy comes from a bad home life. And the boy once confided in him that he's nervous that getting into juvie is a sign that he'll be the same to his own family. 

Peter doesn’t know what the other teen did to get here, but he doesn’t like to talk about his crimes either, so they leave that subject alone.

Quincy shakes his head, “Now, ya see, that’s real cruel of ya to say…” The teen lets out a huff but his smile never leaves his face.

“Seriously though, what’s going on? You’ve been zoned out all day. Or at least more out there than normal…” He takes a second to think before going on in a teasing voice, “Hmm… maybe ya been dreaming of a pretty girl?”

A pang of sadness hits Peter but he doesn’t show it. Instead he narrows his eyes and faces his cellmate, “What’s it to you Quincy? Are you trying to find out all my deepest, darkest secrets or something? Aiming to sell information of my non-existent love life to the black market?”

“Pshh! Get over yourself, you’re not that interesting. I’m just trying to make conversation… Y’know, like normal human beings do?”

Peter, had he been in another life, would’ve protested that he isn’t actually a normal human being. He's really a mutated freak of nature with spliced DNA that gives him incredible powers. Therefore normality shouldn’t apply to him.

But he isn’t in that life, he is in this one, so he just shakes his head and settles for, “Since when are we normal human beings? We’re currently locked in a concrete box for dumb decisions.” Although it’s meant as a joke, Peter can’t help but feel his heart weigh a little heavier. He isn’t normal and he doubts any of these kids are either.

Quincy’s smile falters and he looks down at the ground. It’s covered in gray gravel and chips of concrete that had broken off the paths. The rundown basketball court in front of them has faded lines and cracks running through it. It’s an expanse of gray, and only gray, and that makes Peter sick.

Suddenly, Quincy leans down, bending his back and reaching for something on the ground. Peter hears a small ‘snick’ before the boy rights himself and holds out his hand. Quincy gazes at it with furrowed eyebrows before his face smooths out into calm focus.

Peter tears his gaze away from the boy’s face and down to what he’s holding in his grasp. With a start he realizes just what it is. A small clump of grass. Emerald in an oasis of gray.

“It’s not all bad, y’know?” Quincy says, his black eyes drifting off into the distance. “We’re still people. Not normal, but we don’t deserve to not be human, y’know? We can talk and laugh with each other just like anyone else out there.”

Hazel eyes look off into the courtyard, following his friend’s gaze. He notices with surprise that the courtyard is suddenly much more alive with emerald green grass. It seems to have sprung out of nowhere, growing out of the cracks in the pathways and brushing against the chain link fence. It’s barely anything, he could count the blades of grass if he wanted to, but it’s like breathing in new air. How could he have missed this?

A small voice within him whispers, telling him answers he isn’t quite ready to believe. _You’ve given up in seeing the good_.

Peter looks down at his own feet and sees a grass blade sticking out between his plain, black sneakers. He reaches down and picks it up, twirling it around in his fingers. He lets his senses grow, willingly having them reach out for the first time in weeks. The touch of the plant is smooth, the smell of it like summer despite the November chill having taken over.

“I’m surprised they’re still alive.” Peter comments quietly.

Quincy gets up from his spot on the bench and turns around to face Peter, a cheeky grin on his face, “Life tends to find a way.”

Peter grins, “Jurassic Park?”

All remaining somberness slides away from the other teen as he extends a hand to Peter, “Ya know it! Now come on, it’s almost time to go and I want to shoot some hoops with ya.”

"Me?" Peter asks, skeptically, "You want to play basketball with me? I'm a terrible player!"

Quincy shakes his head, "C'mon, in all this time you haven't even stepped on that, there court.” He jabs his thumb in its direction. “If ya don’t get any exercise you’ll end up fat. Besides, I'm sure you'll be fine. You look like someone who could do okay at sports."

The very thought of it feels impossible. Peter Parker isn't supposed to be playing basketball. He's supposed to be a nerdy, scrawny boy who's as blind as a bat. But then the thought strikes him like a revelation… _No one here knows that_. They didn't know him before the bite. So maybe… just maybe, he could play a little. It couldn’t hurt to play just one game.

A little bit of eagerness seeps into him and before he knows it, he's nodding, “Alright… Yeah, let’s go. Let's do this..” Peter says, grasping Quincy’s offered hand and letting himself be pulled up. “You know that you’ll probably win though, right?”

“Yup.”

==========

“So if we look back on the mid 19th century we’ll notice a lot of industrialization occurring in the states. This was fueled by a need for more material items for a growing populace. In response manufacturers had to find faster and cheaper ways to produce-”

The classroom door swings open and the students break out in whispers as the new boy, Aaron, shuffles into the room, followed closely by an officer. Aaron’s face is littered with bruises, but Peter is glad to see that his arm isn’t in a cast. Good, the nurses must have fixed it before it could get too bad. The officer gestures to the boy, “Excuse me, Ms. Wynnie, but I’ve got a new student here for you. Aaron Myers.”

The teacher nods, offering the boy a quick smile. She looks across the room before her eyes land on the empty chair besides Peter. Ah shit. That’s never a good sign, no matter what school you’re in - even one behind bars.

She points in his direction, “There’s a seat by Mr. Parker that’s empty, you can sit there. Mr. Parker, raise your hand.”

Peter slumps a little before raising his hand up. The new boy’s gaze centers on him before looking back at the officer with disdain. Aaron holds his head high as he breaks away from the man’s grip and walks to his new seat. The foldable chair scrapes against the linoleum floor as he sits down with a huff. The officer takes one last look before leaving the classroom.

Ms. Wynnie turns back to the whiteboard and continues her lesson. For the most part Peter tries to listen, but the presence of the new boy puts him off a little. He beat Rodriguez up with no problems, and Peter could only hope he wouldn’t try doing the same to him. After a few more minutes of lecturing the teacher pulls out a stack of papers, “Alright, use the textbooks on your desks to answer these questions. I want them done by the end of this period.”

She passes the papers out and soon enough the class is writing with their dull pencils and flipping through old, ratty textbooks.

Peter can feel the other boy’s gaze on his back and shuffles in his seat uncomfortably. He’s on question four when Aaron leans over and whispers to him, “Hey, you're that kid from breakfast earlier, right? At the same table?”

Ignoring the new boy’s questions didn’t work out too well with Rodriguez, so Peter nods and whispers back, “Yea-”

“What’s your name?” Aaron cuts him off.

Peter is tempted to remind him that the teacher said it twice and his name is printed on his worksheet, instead he says, “Peter.”

The silence drags on for a little while and Peter finishes two more questions before Aaron speaks up again, “Your shirt is ugly.”

Peter blinks once, then twice. Opens his mouth as if to say something before clamping back down on it. And finally shakes his head a little. “It’s the same shirt you're wearing.” Peter says, exasperated.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Aaron with a big smile, “I know right?” He says. Except this time it’s not even in a whisper and, in the dead silent room, the whole class hears it. Dozens of eyes turn on the pair and Peter can’t help but duck his head. He feels heat creep up his neck and suddenly his paper becomes the most interesting thing in the world. He focuses on the fiber of the paper, the black letters standing stark against the white, and the question that he’s been pretending to read for five minutes now. He ignores the boy next to him and everyone in the room as embarrassment and annoyance well up in his chest. His face is flush and his cheeks burn bright.

This kid seems to be throwing a wrench in his plans for a normal, uneventful, and very quiet day. First the fight and now he’s attracting the attention of a class full of teenage convicts. Peter mentally places him in the ‘screws loose’ category.

Suddenly, he feels a jab in his side and he flinches in surprise. It takes all of his willpower not to let out a yelp as his eyes dart to the source. There, in Aaron’s hand, is a pencil with the eraser side facing Peter, ready to strike again if needed. The boy looks at him intently, seeming to analyze every inch of his face with serious concern. His eyes dart rapidly and he wears away at his bottom lip. Peter notices with a start that his lip is lined with faint scarring.

“Your face is red…” The boy whispers conspiratorially.

Peter feels many emotions at that but they could easily be summed up as: confusion, exasperation, and irritation. He’s tempted to say something to the boy, or even just facepalm, but instead settles on a long sigh. It feels as if his frustration and tension is being leaked out as he exhales, and it does make him feel better. By the end, he's slipping towards resignation. 

‘_Just let it slide._’ He tells himself. ’_Don’t let him get to you. It’s a waste of everyone’s time if you do_.’

He nods at Aaron, “Yeah, I know…” Peter responds with a small huff.

The boy next to him nods his head with satisfaction before turning back to his own work. Peter focuses back on his sheet but doesn’t read it. He glances at Aaron from the corner of his eye, expecting him to start talking again. But a minute passes and the boy doesn’t even bat an eye in his direction.

Thankfully the silence continues and Peter starts working on his assignment.

The work is easy, even though it’s not his strongest subject. History has always been something he’s struggled with, but this class has been simplified because it’s a remedial course made specifically for the teens in juvie. The education didn’t stop when Peter got here, it just got a little dumbed down.

Most people don’t expect much from the average inmate here. And that’s fair, many of these kids had failing grades long before they were put on trial. But the Center needs to make it seem like their inmates are learning and succeeding, so they hold low expectations in their classes. That way, on paper, it looks like the education program has helped these teens with their school work. It makes both the teens, and the Center, appear better than they actually are.

The only problem is that no one actually learns anything. The science department is horribly understaffed and in need of new equipment, which could be said for any of the departments, really. Chemistry class consists of tiles that are used to mindlessly shape together formulas - which more often than not are used to spell out profanities and the word ‘bacon’. Biology still has textbooks from thirty years ago and it’s a miracle that they’re not completely torn up. And computer/technology courses are non-existent due to the Center’s restrictive ban on devices in the hands of inmates.

Peter writes out the answers with ease, feeling a pang of sadness. Losing his chance to challenge himself and truly learn is probably what he misses the most. At Midtown, so many resources were available to him. Up to date knowledge of the newest discoveries in science, interesting classes that were complex and fun to grasp, and all kinds of technology and chemicals were at his disposal. But that’s all gone now and he won’t ever be getting it back. In these brick walls, he feels like a sitting duck. Wasting away time that could be spent actually learning instead of just going through the motions of school.

He feels hollow and bitter as he finishes answering the questions. With nothing else to do he starts going over his answers. Each one is correct, and Peter knows that, but it’ll keep his mind from drifting off to all the things he’s lost.

Peter sneaks a look to his left, at the boy sitting next to him. He notices, with interest, that Aaron is already done with his work and is fiddling with his pencil. He’s chipping away at the eraser with his fingernails. Small, pink pieces of rubber fall onto the desk, bouncing a little and scattering. He does this with a blank face, probably zoned out.

Peter looks away and towards his right. Up on the wall a clock is ticking away. 2:45. Class is almost over and they’ll be having dinner at 4:00, then recreational time, and finally lights out at 8:30.

Same schedule all day, everyday.

Then, Peter hears the click of the doorknob and the creak of the hinges, he sees the door open once more as another guard steps into the class. In his hands are a few folded papers, purposefully hidden from the view of the inmates. The guard looks to Ms. Wynnie, “Ma’am, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to see Mr. Peter Parker, 3042. He’s required at the visitation rooms.”

Peter feels his heart drop to his stomach and his eyes widen. In all the time he’s been here he hasn’t had one visitor. Who could it be? There’s no way it’s his friends… They’re smart but he’s been so careful. They couldn’t possibly know. And even if they did, no one is allowed to leave for a visit during class time.

Ms. Wynnie hesitates for a second, face morphing into confusion, “We still have fifteen minutes… And visitation hours haven’t even started yet.”

The guard nods, “I know, but I’ve got direct orders from both his warden and the superintendents. They insist that this is important.” The man holds the papers out to her and she takes them, unfolding them and scanning through the documents. Her lips are pursed and she glances up at Peter more than once. Finally, she folds the papers back up and gives them back to the guard.

“Mr. Parker, you need to follow Officer Morales to the visitation hall. You can turn your work into me before you go.”

Peter feels like a deer caught in headlights as he gets up, with uncertainty, from his chair. He picks up his paper and walks to the front of the classroom, feeling the heat of everyone’s stares on him. He’s on autopilot as he hands his quiz to the teacher and turns to the officer. He refuses to look at anyone and instead concentrates on the floor.

“Thank you, you have a good day, Ms. Wynnie.” He hears the officer say.

“You too.”

“Come on.” The guard commands as he starts walking outside of the classroom.

Peter’s whole body feels weak and his legs are heavy, as if made of raw vibranium. His mind races a mile a minute as he follows the man out of the room. ‘Who could be here for him?’

The pair walk through the clean, white halls. The smooth brick walls and tiled floor stretching on for what feels like hours. They take a couple turns, passing by a few familiar locations before they’re walking through unknown territory. Peter’s anxiety increases with every step and his heart beats painfully against his rib cage.

THUMP THUMP

THUMP THUMP

THUMP THUMP

Peter’s sure that the guard can hear his heart beating.

After what feels like an eternity of worrying and panic, they stand in front of a heavy, metal door marked, PRIVATE VISITATION ROOM 1. The officer takes his badge from his lanyard and slides it into the lock. A light on the door handle flashes green and the man takes back his badge. He pushes the door open for Peter and gestures for him to go in.

Peter steps into the room and takes in a sharp breath. His eyes widen, his mouth drops, and he has to blink a couple times to believe what - or who, actually - he’s seeing.

A nudge on his back from the officer urges him to move forward, although his eyes never leave his visitor.

“Sit.”, his guard says.

Peter obeys the command and plops down onto the cold, metal seat, his legs suddenly feeling very numb. The guard grabs Peter’s arm and reaches for the handcuffs but stops when the visitor puts up his hand.

“That won’t be necessary.” The man speaks up. And Peter feels another wave of shock hit him. This is _real_.

The officer shakes his head though, “Sorry, sir. But it’s protocol.” Peter feels the cold metal clasp around his right wrist before the officer loops the cuffs through a metal bar on the top of the table. 

“Other hand.” He demands, and Peter gives it to him. With a snap the other arm is attached to the cuffs, leaving the teen chained to the table with his arms out and in view.

The visitor watches Peter, looking him up and down with a sharp gaze before turning to the officer, “Alright, thanks for bringing him in. You can go now.”

The officer seems a little hesitant before nodding, “Yes, sir. And we’ll be viewing the room from the security camera for your own safety. I’ll be outside the door if you need any help.” With those words, the man leaves the room and shuts the door. It clicks with a certain feeling of finality to it, and Peter feels his nervousness take over once more.

“Okay, Kid. First things first, stop gaping at me.” The man says in a tone that’s all business.

Peter’s mouth snaps shut.

“Secondly, I have a proposition for you. One that could help you with this little situation you’ve got yourself stuck in. All you have to do is help me out a little.”

Those words put Peter on edge. There’s a lot about this situation that makes no sense, but he can guess where this is going, and he doesn’t like it. Still, this could be something good, and if it helps him then he should at least listen to what’s being offered. With this thought in mind, a small sliver of hope breaks through his nerves, and he finds himself nodding.

“What do you need me to do, Mr. Stark?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is having a good day! If not, have some happiness! It's free of charge, promise.
> 
> °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°


	3. Shining Snow and Shattering Songs

**11 Months Ago (Dec 16)**

Cheery Christmas music plays in the background of a small apartment in Queens, New York City. Peter hums the tune of Jingle Bells as he shoves his needle and thread into his desk. The vibrant red and blue cloth in his hands gets thrown under his covers before he starts heading towards the door.

“Come on Peter! We’re going to be late!” Aunt May shouts from the living room.

“I’m coming, May!” He calls out as he rounds the corner. The whole living area smells awful, burned casserole sits neglected on the kitchen table and he gags at the sight. “Besides, what do we have to be late to? I’m pretty sure Sunny Thai isn’t a place that needs a reservation.” He jokes.

“Heh, doesn’t mean you have to be ‘fashionably late’ every time we go there. And this is your idea anyway. Honestly, my cooking isn’t that bad, you just won’t give it a chance.” Aunt May says with a roll of her eyes, a fond smile planted on her face.

Peter snorts, “Your cooking is great, but your casseroles look like ground zero. Also I could _hear_ those air quotes around ‘fashionably late’.”

“There were no air quotes. What are you talking about?” May shoots back with a completely fake look of innocence.

“Uh huh. Yeah, totally.” He sasses back as he goes to turn off the radio. The cheery carols stop and he gestures to the apartment door with a courteous bow, “Ladies first.”

His Aunt stays still though, her arms crossed against her chest and an eyebrow raised.

Peter falters a little and glances left to right, looking for the thing that’s stopping his aunt from leaving the room. When he sees nothing he straightens back up and tries again, this time with much less flair, “Umm… That means you go first. Y’know, out the door. Because we need to leave.”

He sees his aunt struggling not to smile and and he can’t help but grin a little, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

She shakes her head a little and sighs before saying, “Peter, you might need a jacket. It’s twenty-nine degrees out there.”

“Oh.” He looks down on himself and sees that there’s no jacket, just a science t-shirt that says “Aluminum Lithium want for Christmas Iodine Sulfur Uranium”. Peter thinks it’s pretty funny and fits the season well. But, as awesome as his shirt is, it probably won’t do anything to protect him from the cold. “Yeah, that’s important. Give me a sec.”

He darts back to his room before grabbing his heaviest coat and putting on an extra hoodie underneath. When he comes back he sees May bow with a flourish, her hand extended towards the door and a smug grin sliding onto her face. “Gentlemen, first.”

Peter groans, and dramatically facepalms before striding towards the door and opening it up. He pauses for a second before turning back towards his aunt and giving her a smile just as smug, “Come on, we don’t want to be late. Then we’d miss that reservation. And y’know how hard it was to get in to such a prestigious restaurant.”

May gets up with a laugh as she walks towards Peter. Her hand rises up and ruffles his chestnut hair with amusement in her eyes.

Peter, for his part, tries not to look embarrassed as he ducks out from her touch, “Hey, I’m not five!” he cries out.

“Is there an age limit for that? Because I didn’t know that turning six and up meant I couldn’t pat you on the head.” She says as she locks the door behind her.

“Yeah, I think I’ve got a contract and everything. You’ll be seeing me in court, ma’am.” Peter says, struggling to stay serious.

May gives him a scandalized look, pressing the button for the elevator before turning to him, “Okay, that’s it, I’m officially disowning you! To think that I thought of you as my favorite nephew.” She shakes her head and clucks her tongue.

“But I’m your _only_ nephew!” He protests.

“Details, details.” She says with a casual wave of her hand.

“They’re pretty important details.”

The elevator pings and the doors slide open. The two step into the cramped space and Peter punches in the button for the ground floor. It glows a faint yellow and the doors close on them. For a second, nothing happens, but then the small compartment jolts and the two start heading down.

“I’d like to think that what’s important in life is heavily subjected.” His aunt pipes up, “But if you’re so insistent on being my favorite nephew, then you can have that title back.”

“Oh thank you, you’re so kind.” He sends back without missing a beat.

Another ping chimes out and the elevator is opening up. The two step into the lobby then make their way through the exit and outside to the parking lot. Dozens of cars line the area and they walk towards the spot they left their’s in last. It’s a small, roughed up, 1996 sedan with a silver paint job that’s been slowly chipping away for years. But it’s been reliable for a long time. It was the car that drove Peter to his first day of school, it was what took him to his doctor every time he got sick - which was often before the bite - , and it’s what will take them to their dinner today.

Without words the two work to swipe away the fallen snow on the window shields. Peter covers his hand with his sleeve as he scrapes off the cold clumps from the back. May takes the front and soon enough it’s all cleared away.

“So… Can I drive?” Peter asks, hopeful.

“Sorry, but the roads are going to be slippery, so I’ll be driving tonight.” Peter feels a flash of disappointment but May quickly adds, “I’ll let you drive around a bit tomorrow afternoon. The ice and snow will have been cleared from the roads by then.”

Peter mutters a small “Yes!” under his breath and opens the door to the passenger’s seat. May climbs in on her side and puts the keys in the ignition.

“Let’s just hope that the engine will start. This weather isn’t exactly easy on it.” She comments as she turns the key. The car grumbles in response before sputtering out. His aunt sighs before trying again, this time revving the engine. It comes alive after a few uncertain seconds and she smiles. “There we go. Give it a couple minutes and it’ll be warm enough to turn the heater on.”

“Yeah.” He nods, feeling a shiver pass through him at the same time. His breath forms clouds in front of his face.

May puts the car in reverse and drives out of the parking lot. She shifts it into drive and maneuvers it through the maze of snowed in vehicles. Soon enough they’re out on the roads, passing by bright, happy Christmas lights and store fronts with wreaths hanging in the windows. The city seems to come alive the closer they get to the center. Families walk together, enjoying a night out, and smiling faces ring bells next to red buckets labeled “The Salvation Army”, wishing everyone who walks by a merry Christmas.

They pass by evergreen trees, draped in green and red lights. People of all backgrounds carry bags that no doubt carry presents in them. Peter turns on the heater, feeling the warmth blow softly against his face. He points one of the vents towards Aunt May before turning on the radio. Drummer Boy begins to drift peacefully through the car and May lets out a content sigh.

“I love this time of year. It’s so beautiful.” She says wistfully.

Peter looks at her, seeing her lips twitch up a little as golden lights reflect in her eyes from the decorations outside. He notices with a tug of his heart that her eyes are damp. He turns back to the window and nods, “Yeah, I think it’s nice. It’s just a time to let go of your worries and just enjoy life.”

Outside his window a family of three passes outside. A young boy holds his parent’s hands, skipping through the snow with a big smile on his face. A pang of sadness hits Peter and he quickly turns away. Long after the family is out of sight his chest remains aching.

“We’re here.” May says, bringing him out of his thoughts.

He looks out the window at the familiar building. It’s one of the restaurants they frequent when one of them burns dinner or they’re just both too tired to make anything.

May takes the keys out and the car goes silent and still. They climb out and Peter instantly misses the warmth. He pulls his jacket tighter around himself as he walks towards the entrance and pulls open the door. May hurries inside with him and the two walk up to the hostess.

“Just us two.” She says with a smile at the woman.

The hostess nods and pulls two menus from her podium, “Right this way, please.”

Sunny Thai is elegant in design but also simple and modest. Pretty lamps hang from the ceiling and let out a gentle glow. The walls are made of wooden panelling, done in a decorative design, with built in shelves displaying photos of Thailand. Christmas decorations are sprinkled throughout the building. A tree here, a streamer there, but nothing overpowering. The two sit down in a small booth and the host hands them their menus.

“Your waiter will be right out for you.” She says politely before leaving.

Peter glances down at the menu, scanning the options for a few minutes. His stomach grumbles at the thought of food. Ever since the bite his metabolism has been through the roof.

May groans and he looks up at her. Seeing his glance, she drops her menu down on the table and explains, “I can never find what I want, there’s like over a hundred things on here… What did I even get last time?!”

Peter chuckles and reaches over, turning the pages of her menu to the seafood section, “You got the shrimp pad thai last time, remember? With a side order of…” The teen takes a second to think, “Rainbow sushi.”

May smiles and points at him with excitement, “That’s it! That’s the one! Thank you. I honestly don’t know how you do that, though. You forget your jacket but always get my order exactly right.”

“Well, I remember the important stuff, May.” Peter shrugs, feeling sheepish.

“Peter,” She starts with a deadpan look, “pad Thai should not be a priority over a jacket that helps you survive the cold.” She says with a shake of her head.

“Pad Thai will always be the most important thing in the universe.” He protests lightly.

A waiter walks up to them with a pad and pencil in hand, “Hello, my name is Sumate, I’ll be your server for today. Can I get your drink?”

“Hmm… I’ll try the lemon tea.” May says.

“And I’ll have a coke.”

He writes that down and looks back up to them, “Are you ready to order? Or do you need more time?”

May glances at her nephew, and at his nod she smiles up at the waiter, “I think we’re ready. I’ll have the shrimp pad thai and a plate of rainbow sushi. Peter?”

“Can I have the beef curry, please?” He asks.

The waiter nods and writes the orders down, “Yes, it’ll be no problem.” He closes his order booklet and takes up their menus, “I’ll be right out with your drinks.”

The waiter comes back in a few minutes with their respective beverages. It takes a bit longer, though, for the food to come out. But it’s worth it in the end when Peter is digging into the heaps of Thai curry. The small family of two eat in silence for a few minutes, just enjoying each others company.

Eventually Aunt May speaks up, “So, Peter how’s school been going?”

Peter swallows his food and smiles. He’s been meaning to tell her all day and he feels eagerness swell up in him, “It’s been really cool! Me, Ned, and MJ have been working on a group project together for our robotics class. We’re trying to make a drone that’s quieter and smaller than the ones on the market today. If it turns out good we’ll be entering it into the next Stark Expo Junior showcase. It’s still in the planning phases right now, but the science behind it is solid.”

May beams at him and Peter can’t help but be proud, “Wow, look at you, all smart and technical! You’re a genius, Peter. I think you and your friends will have no trouble getting a job at Stark Industries one day!”

“We’re really hoping that we can qualify for the September Foundation when we’re older.”

“Ooh, that’s the one where Tony Stark pays for college, right? I like the idea of that.” She chuckles.

Peter nods enthusiastically, his hair bobbing up and down with the movement, “Yeah, but it’s so much more than that! You can get a paid internship at the company as soon as you’re out of university. And not just the ‘getting coffee’ kind of internship, but a real one where you could actually be doing things in the lab!”

“Saving lives with the power of technology, I hope?”

“Of course! I’d never use my smarts to hurt someone.” Peter says. 

Privately, in his own mind, the boy also promises to himself, ‘_I’ll never use my powers to do bad, either._’

She gives him a semi-serious look, but Peter can see her struggling to hold down her smile, “Good, because if you become a mad scientist I’ll kick your ass. Then I’d ground you until you’re old enough to have wrinkles.”

Peter feels a grin willing it’s way onto his face and a warm feeling touching his heart, “Yeah, I’ll hold you to that. You’ll keep me from planning world domination, and I’ll stop you from burning down the world with your casserole.”

“Oh shush you.” She picks up her cloth napkin and quickly rolls it up before smacking him on the hand lightly with it.

“Hey! What was that for!?” Peter squawks indignantly. It's a squawk that the teen would deny ever making. Because he’s totally manly… yeah totally.

May snorts, “Love you, Peter.” She says.

He raises one eyebrow, “Oh, really? No food based pun today? No I larb you?”

His aunt shakes her head, a glint in her eye and a playful grin planted on her face, “Nah. I figure I can’t curry favor with you that way!” She softly laughs.

" Well I love you t- wait a minute!" He looks down at his own dish in realization, “Oh my God…! You were planning that all along! Maybe you burned dinner just so you could make that joke!”

May picks up her cup, smiling behind the rim and feigning a defeated tone, “I guess you caught me! My master plan has been revealed… And I would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for you meddling kids.” She sets down her drink and goes for another bite of her food, “But, no really, that casserole was gonna be great. I just don’t have a gift for those kinds of foods. But one day, it won’t be so burnt, I swear it!”

“I’ll be cheering for every step you take towards a good casserole. Every failure is only a learning experience.” Peter reassures her.

“Y’know, Pete,” May pauses for a second to contemplate something before her lips upturn into a smile, “that’s actually a good life lesson to carry with you. Even if it only applies to my failing cooking for now.”

==========

The bell above the door jingles as they step back out into the cold. Peter turns to his aunt as they make their way to their car, “Thanks for the dinner, May. It was great.” He says.

“I know, that place always has the best Thai food in New York. And there’s always so much of it! The second we get home I’m taking a long, food induced, nap.”

“Yeah, Me too.”

The two pile into the car and soon they’re rolling back onto the busy streets of the city. It’s already past nine and the sun has long since set, but there’s still so many people out. But what else can you expect from the city that never sleeps?

They slowly creep through traffic and Peter smiles up at the twinkling skyscrapers towering over them. Lights are strung up across the sidewalks and large, lit up ads spell out cheery Christmas wishes. It bathes the whole area in glowing colors, causing reds, greens, and golds to shimmer across the fallen snow. Peter watches mesmerized as they pass through the beautiful display, feeling himself completely relax.

The car remains quiet, with the radio set down to a low volume that even Peter can barely hear. Warmth envelopes him once more as the heater starts running. It feels like an embrace from the frosty weather outside. The day is almost perfect.

If only there were one other person in this car with them…

And just like that the beautiful feeling of comfort and joy is gone, swept away by icy emotion. Peter’s heart aches a little and swallowing becomes a bit harder. He blinks his eyes a couple times, willing away the blurry tears that threaten to form. He wants to keep the silence, he really does, but grief still manages to escape him. The boy unwillingly lets out a whimper, which makes the pain feel so much worse and so much more real.

“Peter?” A soft voice asks tentatively.

He can’t stop the words from leaving him, it just hurts too much to keep to himself, “This will be the first Christmas without him…” He whispers out, so quietly that Peter doubts his aunt even heard it. Guilt washes over him at the thought, he doesn’t want to remind her of this.

For a couple beats, May doesn’t say anything, and Peter wonders if she really didn’t hear him. Then she speaks up in a shaky voice, “Yeah… B-But we have each other. And Ben wouldn’t want us crying before Christmas, or during, or after it. You know how h-he is.” She sniffles a little.

Despite Peter’s efforts, his vision blurs up, becoming a mix of colors and swirling shapes. He feels a hot tear roll down his cheek and brushes it away quickly. His whole body feels weak and tired, “I really miss him.” He quietly admits.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees May nod, “Me too.”

All of a sudden a rush of exhaustion hits Peter. The flare of grief must have taken out a lot from him. He leans his head against his seatbelt, his eyelids growing heavy.

After a minute of silence, Aunt May glances down at him, “Sleep, Peter. I’ll wake you up when we get back to the apartment.” She says, her voice soothing him. She turns the knob on the radio and calming Christmas music starts playing.

Peter hums out an agreement, letting his eyes close and his thoughts drift off. The world around him goes dark and he allows himself to fall into sleep’s peaceful comforts. In seconds he’s snoring, out like a light.

==========

He hears the loud blare of a horn and a terrible screeching sound. There’s a scream and an all encompassing crash. A smell of burning rubber and iron. The feeling of weightlessness and of harsh, jolting movements. 

Bright, white lights flicker and freezing cold hits his face. Something shatters, and sharp pain laces across dozens of spots on his skin, hot liquid oozes to the surface of his body, rolling down slowly. His head bangs against a hard surface and awful pain radiates from it, as if his brain is rattling against his skull.

Consciousness seeps away from him before he can understand what’s going on. But his mind vaguely notices one last thing.

There is no more screaming. Only the sound of shattering glass hitting asphalt, and the haunting tune of Silent Night playing in the background…

…Silent night, holy night

All is calm, all is bright

Round yon Virgin, Mother, and Child

Holy infant so tender and mild

Sleep in heavenly peace

Sleep in heavenly peace…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will not be a happy story, not for a long time. Just felt like I should warn ya'll.


	4. Red and Gold Glint

“…I have a proposition for you. One that could help you with this little situation you’ve got yourself stuck in. All you have to do is help me out a little.”

…There’s a lot about this situation that makes no sense, but he can guess where this is going, and he doesn’t like it. Still… a small sliver of hope breaks through his nerves, and he finds himself nodding.

“What do you need me to do, Mr. Stark?”

The man pulls out his phone and starts typing on it, talking to Peter as he does, “You see, I was planning to do this whole thing where I use a hologram to project some videos and all that cool stuff. But I can’t exactly do that with a bunch of police officers in the next room, watching us like hawks. So I’ve got to use a normal phone, instead.”

Peter stays silent as his idol does this. Disbelief courses through his veins and he’s tempted to pinch himself. He scans his eyes over the man’s expensive, dark suit, signature goatee, and ruffled hair. On closer inspection he notices that there’s dark smudges under his eyes that rival his own. This detail makes him frown and, for some reason, makes the hero seem a lot more human than he did a few seconds ago.

“Ah, there it is.” Mr. Stark says to himself as he taps at his screen, bringing the teen out of his thoughts. He turns his phone to Peter and lets the video play.

Instantly, his heart leaps into his throat and alarm bells start ringing in his head. Thankfully, he had guessed that this is what Stark wanted, so at least it doesn’t completely shock him. If it did, he might've keeled over and died. Still, Peter forces his face to stay calm throughout the clips, not letting his panic show.

On the screen is a red and blue figure, swinging through the streets of New York City. They swoop past a carjacker, webbing them down in seconds. They rush forwards, with no hesitation, to stop an out of control car from ramming into a bus full of passengers before jumping up and out of sight.

“That’s you, right?” The billionaire asks with his critical gaze focused on Peter.

His first instinct is to deny it, “No, no. That’s on the internet. You got it from Youtube, right? Because you know it can all be faked. It’s done on a- a computer.”

But the man just leans back in his chair, eyes glinting and a satisfied smirk on his face, “You see, now I know you’re him. This Spider Kid, crimefighting Spider Boy. Or at least someone enhanced.”

Now that surprises Peter and his gaze sharpens on Mr. Stark, “How did you…?” He trails off, realizing that just saying it damns him and his secret.

Mr. Stark points at his phone, “It’s been specially developed by me, able to operate with a light output darker than the average human eye can see. I figured you would have enhanced sensory input to go along with all that muscle. Honestly, it was a gamble, but you saw the video so it paid off.”

Peter feels like kicking himself. He should have paid more attention. Of course he’d be outsmarted by The Tony Stark. He wouldn’t have just taken Peter’s words at face value, the man is a genius.

Peter sighs and nods his head. He knows he’s been caught, might as well go along with it. If he's lucky he can save some of his dignity, “It’s Spiderman, not Spider Boy.” He lets out with a resigned huff. He’d be crossing his arms if they weren’t cuffed down.

“Not in that onesie, you’re not. And definitely not in here with that prison” - Peter flinches - “uniform on you.”

Mr. Stark looks Peter up and down for a second before continuing on, “And speaking of which… Do you know how much of a pain it was to find you? I looked through multiple university’s databases for a male candidate that fit your rough age and height. Had to cross reference that with addresses and video feed. Eventually, I realized that you could be a high school student and had to scrap my search and start all over again. FRIDAY was not happy with me.”

He takes a second to breath and Peter keeps silent, “A couple of these high school students fit, but then I narrowed down my search to schools with high performing students. I’ve seen your webbing, its tensile strength is off the charts. That formula isn’t easy to construct, either. At least I’m assuming it’s inorganic. If it’s not… well that’s just gross.”

The man looks at Peter expectantly and it takes a second for the teen to realize what he’s waiting for, “Uh… yeah, I make - well _made_ \- it in a lab.” He says reluctantly. It feels like he’s telling the world his dirty secrets with just those few words.

“Thought so. In any case, I found nothing that fit quite right. Until I realized that your disappearance could have an underlying reason to it. At first I thought you dropped off the map because you realized that what you were doing was dangerous. But maybe something else happened, something that forced you to stop. So I began looking through recent transactions that could indicate moving to a different area, obituaries that fit with the time frame, and hospitalization records.”

The world seems to tighten around Peter at this. It feels like an invasion of his life, a complete raid of his mind and suffering without any concern for him. “Okay, okay.” he quickly cuts the billionaire off, “I get it, it was hard to find me. Just… can we please move on?”

Mr. Stark pauses to give him an appraising look. After a few seconds his gaze softens a little, but his sharp expression is back so quickly that Peter wonders if he simply imagined it. “It’s not important, anyways. So, how do you do it? Climb the walls, that is. Adhesive gloves?”

This is easier territory and Peter lets out an inaudible breath of relief, “It’s a long story.”

Tony Stark leans forward, as if he were in a business meeting, eager to finish selling his pitch, “Okay, well you have plenty of time to tell me that later. But not now. You see, you might not be swinging around currently, but when you eventually are, you’ll be in dire need of an upgrade. Systematic top to bottom, hundred point restoration, that’s why I’m here.”

Peter’s brows shoot up and his eyes widen, he just about manages to keep his mouth from dropping again.

“But first,” Mr. Stark says, slowly this time and completely somber, “I need to know… Why? Why did you do all that? I’ve got to know, what’s your MO? What had you going out onto the streets each night? And what keeps you going in here?”

Peter looks into his idol’s eyes and sees an emptiness there, a gaze devoid of any of the eccentric personality he’s come to expect. A haunted face that’s been through terrible things… and it strikes a chord with him. 

He glances down at the cuffs that chain him down, at the faint white lines running across his arms from too many injuries to count, and he swallows his nervousness and starts to speak, “Because… I’ve been me my whole life. And I’ve had these powers for a year and a half… with only six months to use them before I got here. I read books, I built computers… and yeah, it would’ve been great to play football, but I couldn’t before, so I shouldn’t after. And I didn’t.”

At this Mr. Stark cuts in, “Yeah, makes sense. Because you’re different now but nobody knows that.”

“Exactly.” Peter takes a few seconds to collect himself before continuing. He knows that what he’s going to say next will hurt a little, but it needs to be said, “Look, when you do the things that I can, but you don’t…”

He pauses for a second, swallowing his nerves as Mr. Stark leans in a little, his full attention on him.

Peter trudges on, careful to keep his voice even, “...And then the bad things happen… They happen because of you.

The words weigh heavy on his shoulders as he finishes them. The room goes silent, Mr. Stark looks down and Peter trains his gaze on the wall, refusing to look his hero in the eye. It feels like a confession to Peter. That bad things have happened around him and that he’s the cause. It might as well be admitting he’s at fault for everything. His body sits numb and his chest feels like it’s squeezing in on itself, ready to shatter. He forces out a breath and tries desperately to shove those feelings away. Now isn’t the time.

Thankfully, Mr. Stark says something before Peter can break down, “So, you wanted to look out for the little guy? You wanted to do your part to make the world a better place? At least in the beginning.”

Peter cringes at that last sentence and nods his head slowly, subdued for now. But it feels important to say this, so he makes eye contact with the man, “Yeah… That’s what I wanted. Still want.”

Stark gives him one last look. His dark eyes seem to peer into his soul and Peter resists the urge to look down again.

Finally, the man relents his intense stare and pulls out some documents, they’re face down for now and Peter wonders what they are. 

“Got a passport?” Stark asks.

Confusion washes over Peter. Out of all the things he had expected to come out of Mr. Stark’s mouth, that was not one of them, and he has to think for a few seconds before he can clear his thoughts and say, “No.”

“Ever been to Germany?” Stark says, unfazed.

“No.” Peter wonders where this is going.

“Oh, you’ll love it.” He continues, almost cheerfully.

Peter’s mind freezes a little at the absurdity of the situation. He must be dreaming. There’s no other way this can be happening. Maybe he got knocked out on accident during the fight this morning? Because having some lucid dream about Tony Stark visiting him at The Center, and inviting him to Europe, is the only way this could be happening. 

He glances around the gray room, feeling the hard, cold chair under him, and breathing in the unpleasant, stale air. He takes in the grimy corners where no one bothered to clean and all the other ugly little details. When he trains his eyes back on Mr. Stark he sees the man’s expectant look.

‘_Ok_’, thinks Peter. ‘_This feels pretty real, and if I dreamt about meeting my idol, it most likely wouldn’t be in this place._’

‘_So, chances are, this is probably real, and my life is just that crazy._’

He shakes his head of both his thoughts, and as a disagreement, “I can’t go to Germany!” He protests.

“Why?”

Peter shoots the man a disbelieving look and awkwardly gestures to the room with his cuffed hands, “Take one look around you, Mr. Stark, I’m not exactly in the most relaxed place on Earth. Something tells me that they won’t let me take Thanksgiving break off.”

Surprisingly, the billionaire snorts, a small smile on his face, “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”

But Peter doesn’t feel like joking, “I’m serious, sir. I can’t just leave! I don’t think you get the point of this place.”

“And I’m serious too.” The man shoots back, “I’m a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, and a guy with many, many government contacts. I need you out of here and with me for the next couple days, and I can make it happen.”

“And that’s another thing! I thought you said you wanted to give me an upgrade when I got out. Why do you need me to go to Germany?”

“I need to bring in Captain American for his crimes, and I want you on my team.”

Peter’s mind full on stops, coming to a screeching halt, “Wait, what?!”

Mr. Stark nods, “He’s out of control and if Earth is going to keep its best defenders then he needs to put aside his own concerns and sign onto the conventions.”

It feels as if Peter is back to square one. All this time he’s been piecing together Stark’s motives, what he wants, and what he’ll do to get it. But this is completely new. Captain America a criminal? And what’s being signed, exactly?

“I-I’m sorry Mr. Stark. But I don’t know what you’re talking about. The Center doesn’t want kids to have any more outside knowledge than necessary, so we don’t exactly get the latests news.

Understanding flashes across the man’s face and he sighs, “Right… I forgot. This is a pri- correctional center. Makes sense that you’re not allowed phones or TVs.”

Peter nods, “Yeah, all we get are newspapers, but The Bugle is basically a tabloid so I don’t read it.”

“Okay… you know about Ultron, though, right?” Mr. Starks asks. At Peter’s nod he continues, “Alright, so a lot has happened since you got here, so this is going to be the abridged version for time’s sake.

For the next five minutes Mr. Stark explains everything that’s happened in the last eight months. The Sokovia disaster, the Accords, the UN conference, the bombing, the identity of the suspect, the chase through Bucharest, and the breakout of the Winter Soldier. By the end, Peter’s head is spinning with the new information. Everything he thought was certain had been tossed out the window in such a short time that he isn’t sure what to think.

“...So, yeah. They’re all in really hot water right now and I need to bring them in. It’s for everyone’s own good.” Stark finishes.

Peter’s throat feels dry, and his voice is scratchy when he talks, “A-and you want _me_ to help bring half the Avengers in?” The stress of the thought wears away at Peter and the dark smudges under the man’s eyes become a lot more understandable.

Mr. Stark nods, a grave look on his face, “Yeah. Basically.”

The two are silent for a while. Peter looks down at his lap, feeling the weight of the situation press down on him. Tony Stark just asked him, teenage convict and secret vigilante, to go to Germany and fight against the Avengers. To aid in the arrest of Captain America and his rouge team of superheroes. The same superheroes that Peter has looked up to his whole life.

But when Peter looks up at the man in front of him, the answer is obvious. He sees his idol, the genius who innovated a new age. He sees the man on the cover of his favorite book, which he owned long before he could fully comprehend what it was about; _Tony Stark: Life From the View of a Genius, Billionaire, Playboy, Philanthropist_. The man who stood against terrorists, escaping from their clutches and choosing action over cowardice. He sees his hero, who armed up to fight against an alien invasion and saved the entire city of New York.

Peter Parker sees the man who stood next to him - when he was only seven years old - as a rogue, soulless machine trained it’s gun straight at his head. He sees the red and golden armor stretching out its arm, light and energy charging from the palm and shooting down the enemy. He feels his racing heart from all those years ago as that mask, which mirrored his own, looked down at him.

_Nice work kid_.

And in that moment Peter realizes that his choice was made long before Mr. Stark had told him what was going on. It was made long before he donned his red and blue suit and even before the Stark Expo all those years ago.

His choice was sealed when he was barely six years old. He had been sitting in a motel, nestled between his aunt and uncle on the bed, not a word coming from any of them as they watched the TV with wary and tense eyes. They’d been evacuated and had driven miles and miles just to find a room that wasn’t booked, but the weariness of the day had been warded off completely by adrenaline.

On the screen the headline read: GOVERNMENT ORDERS NUCLEAR BOMB BE DROPPED ON NEW YORK CITY

He remembers May had been crying in the background. Uncle Ben wrapped his arms around the both of them and pulled them close. He didn’t fully understand it back then, in fact, he didn’t even know what the word “nuclear bomb” meant. But dread still wormed its way into his heart and he knew with absolute certainty that something bad was going to happen.

But the screen suddenly changed from the reporter to live footage, with a little box in the corner displaying the woman. The miserable voice of the anchor was replaced with excited screaming. She shouted out words so fast that Peter could barely keep up.

“We have a live view here! It looks like Iron Man has grabbed hold of the bomb! Oh my God! Oh God, I can’t believe it!” She sobbed, but kept going in a watery voice, “D-Do we have contact with the cameraman?! W-We do?! Tell him to zoom in! Zoom in, Andy!”

The view got closer and Peter’s family let out a collective gasp.

With startling clarity, he remembers the glint of red and gold that soared up into the sky, followed by a stream of white fire from the rockets. He had weaved in between the chaotic swarm of aliens, with something large and dangerous in hand. 

Hope exploded from the young boy’s heart, spreading to every corner of his body and filling him with powerful energy. He started screaming, cheering for his hero with everything he had in him. He sprung up from his seat and landed on the floor, jumping up and down with fierce determination.

“Go Iron Man! Go Go! You’ve got this!” He had cried out.

The reporter’s voice faded away, everything did, actually. And if you ask Peter about it now, he’d say that he doesn’t remember anything else but the red and gold glint and his own cheers.

Up and up Iron Man flew, all the way into the hole in the sky that Peter knew shouldn’t be there, but was. And then he blinked out of existence. Into the tear of reality and out of view.

Peter went still and dead quiet, watching with laser focus at the screen in front of him.

A minute ticked by, then another, and another. Or at least Peter thinks so, the passing of time is always a bit fuzzy with memories.

Then the sky pulsed with brilliant orange and the hole started closing, but Iron Man still wasn’t out from it yet. Peter felt fear grip him and he brought his arms up around himself, whimpering a little. A warm, and steady hand grabbed him from behind and led him back onto the bed. He was hoisted onto the lap of his uncle and curled up instantly. Between his bent knees he watched as the hole got smaller and smaller, shrinking until it was barely bigger than a car.

And then red and gold emerged, hurtling from the portal as it closed. A blue wave shot across the sky and space knitted itself together.

The camera footage captured the downwards descent. It looked like he was going to fall straight onto the ground, too fast to survive. Peter had held his breath and the moment seemed to stretch on for ages as his hero fell faster and faster.

A streak of green darted across the sky, catching Iron Man in its grasp, and Peter’s heart jumped up into his throat. The two made their way to the ground and the camera lost sight of them.

He remembers how his aunt kept sobbing against his uncle Ben’s chest, but he didn’t understand why. The day had been saved, so why was she still crying? Years later he would learn that it was immense relief that brought on the tears, but for him, no relief came.

It wasn’t until early in the morning of the next day, that he finally breathed easy and relaxed.

Because, on the TV, the words read: TONY STARK, EARTH’S MIGHTIEST DEFENDER, LIVES

So, right now, in the present time and place, Peter knows what choice he’s going to make. He knows it with absolute certainty.

The words come strong, without a single ounce of doubt in them as he looks up at his idol, his hero, “I’m with you.”

A small, relieved grin breaks across the man’s face, tearing down a little bit of that weariness on it. He stands up from his chair, reaching for the papers on the table and turning them right side up. He pushes them towards Peter and reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a pen. He tosses it lightly towards the teen’s hands, who surprisingly - or not surprisingly to anyone in the room - manages to grab it, even with his hands cuffed.

On the document is the title: Temporary Release and Custody Form

It makes the whole thing feel so much more real and Peter feels a rush of excitement flow through him.

“All I need you to do is sign _right there_…” Mr. Stark points to a line at the bottom of the paper, right below a line with the man’s own signature on it.

The cuffs are just slack enough for the young teen to be able to sign his name. Despite the chains, the cement walls, and cameras trained on his back, Peter feels free for the first time in months.

“Alright, Kid.” Mr. Stark says, “Let’s get you out of those handcuffs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Off to Germany ya go kid!  
I'm excited to keep writing, especially about what happened to Peter to get him in The Center and how his relationship with Tony will grow.  
:)


	5. Germany

Peter can’t quite believe his eyes.

A white, sleek jet sits on the tarmac at JFK airport, ready to take off at a moments notice. The setting sun casts orange highlights across its body and it gleams brightly under the light. Its engines roar with power and giddiness bubbles up in Peter.

He turns towards Happy Hogan, the man who will be escorting him on this trip when Mr. Stark isn’t there to watch him. The man hasn’t said much, and has mainly been frowning this whole time, but even that can’t damper his mood.

“I’ve never flown before.” He admits, “So this is pretty cool.”

The bodyguard hums and turns his head up in recognition, but other than that, doesn’t say anything.

The two ascend the stairway up to the jet and Peter’s heart pounds in excitement. When he gets inside he has to pause and just look across the cabin, a breath of awe escaping him.

“Wow…”

The room is simply beautiful, worth more than anything Peter has ever laid his eyes on. Lights line the top of the plane, giving the place a bright and modern look; padded, vinyl chairs line one side of the cabin, each one bathed in sunlight from the crystal clear windows. A full on bar is on the opposite side of the seating, with a shiny, black countertop finishing off the look. It screams wealth and Peter has the sudden urge to run his hands all over it.

A traitorous, sinking thought crosses his mind, ‘_You don’t deserve to be here…_’ He ignores it.

“We don't have all day. Y'know that, right?.” Mutters a grumpy voice behind him.

Peter snaps back to the present and nods, “Yeah, yeah, sorry about that.” He quickly moves out of the way, finding a seat at the back of the plane and plopping himself down onto it. The way he sinks into the cushion makes him sigh. His hands run up and down the armrests, taking in the soft and cool material. 

His escort sits in the seat next to him, “Tony will be here in a couple minutes.”

For some reason hearing Mr. Stark being called “Tony” surprises Peter. Sure, he logically knows that the man’s first name is Tony - technically Anthony. But, somehow, the name is unfamiliar despite him having known it for years. He’s not quite sure what to think of that.

The teen fiddles with the fraying ends of his jacket sleeves. It’s the last outfit he wore before he’d had to change into the uniform. The guards had given it all back to him for the day.

A ratty T-shirt, stained and ripped blue jeans, and a dusty jacket. Those are all of his possessions now, the sum of his existence solely on his back.

Suddenly, his hearing picks up the sound of steps. It’s almost drowned out by the humming turbines, but the tapping is distinct against the white noise. His head shoots up and he trains his gaze on the doorway, focusing his attention on the sound. It clicks across the cement with a rhythm that Peter can’t help but recognize. Up they come, closer and closer, now hitting metal stairs.

And then Mr. Stark walks through the door, dark sunglasses propped on his face, which hides his eyes.

“Ah, Peter, there you are. Right on time.” He approaches the boy and rests one of his hands on the seat in front of him, casually leaning his weight onto it. He shoots a look at Mr. Hogan, “Thank you for bringing him here, Happy.”

The man nods his head.

Stark focuses his gaze back on him, “Come on, we don’t have long before the rest of the team gets here, and something tells me you don’t want them knowing who you are. So I’ve got something that just might help…” The billionaire raises his other arm and gestures to the back of the plane with a flourish. There’s nothing but a plain wooden door at the back, but anticipation takes over, and the teen can’t help but wonder what’s behind it.

Excitement fills him as he bolts up from his seat, quickly scrambling past Mr. Hogan and stepping into the aisle. He looks back at Mr. Stark, who nods his head in reassurance.

That’s all Peter needs to start rushing towards the back of the plane, opening the door and stepping through it. 

He can’t help but gawk at the room, which is filled to the brim with technology. Dark, sleek screens, machines frozen - waiting for use - , and a modern workbench with dozens of tools neatly secured to its shelves.

He feels a presence behind him and moves to the side, allowing the man to step in front of him.

“FRIDAY, lights on.” Mr. Stark commands.

Peter is about to ask what “FRIDAY” is but the thought soon leaves him completely.

Before his very eyes the room comes alive. Lights click on across cabinets made of frosted glass, displaying the shadows of hidden items. The surface of the work table starts to glow, becoming a whole display of its own with schematics written across it. And, to the teen’s shock, holograms begin floating in the air, surrounding the two. They display dozens of projects, simulations, and information, some of which Peter can barely wrap his head around.

“Pretty sweet, isn’t it? I had this place installed so I could always have a workshop with me, even thirty five thousand feet in the air.” Mr. Stark says, a hint of pride in his voice.

“Yeah…” Peter vaguely hears himself say, but his mind is solely focused on the workshop, busy taking in every little detail and committing it to memory.

Stark swipes across the desk top and the blueprints smoothly slide away from view. He takes the keyboard and starts rapidly typing and it isn’t long before a new diagram is pulled up. Peter takes one look at it and he’s floored, all breath rushing from his lungs.

Red and blue tint the screen and emit a soft glow. The two colors become his whole world and, for a moment, the boy loses himself in them. His heart aches at the sight. ‘_How many months have I gone without seeing them?_’. They’re so familiar but so foreign at the same time. And yet, Peter recognizes them instantly and mixed emotions flood him. They tumbles over his heart, drowning it in a sudden, awful feeling. His eyes begin to water and his hand shoots up to his mouth, muffling the cry that escapes him.

He can feel Mr. Stark’s eyes on him, but he’s frozen, unable to respond. It’s so beautiful but so terrible.

‘_How many people did you hurt while you wore those colors with pride? How many got killed because you used them to hide yourself?_’

The world around him tears apart and reforms. He’s standing in a dark alleyway. The chilly morning air makes him shiver in his red and blue hoodie. The bag is ripped from his arms. Then the shots start firing. He’s running, blood pumping in his ears and lungs aching. Sirens wail in the distance. And when he’s finally safe in a deep, dark, and grimy part of the city, he looks down at himself.

Scarlet red is splattered across his chest, already seeping into the fabric.

“Kid.” Someone says in the distance. Except, it’s not in the distance, is it? The voice is right next to him.

And suddenly, the memory retreats far into the corner of his mind, and Peter is back on the plane with Mr. Stark. Where the engines are purring under him and orange light is filtering through the windows.

He turns his head away for a moment, reaching up and brushing away the unshed tears. He forces a smile on his face and turns around to face the man, “Uh, sorry, drifted off for a sec. I-It’s really amazing Mr. Stark! You’ve upgraded the whole thing!”

The billionaire quickly turns to the display and nods, “Like I said, complete top to bottom advancements. It's got everything you’ll need. Able to enhance and dull sensory input, mold to the form of the user, and has over fifty versions of webbing that can combine and work together for hundreds of possibilities.”

Peter nods along, trying to mask the restlessness that urges him to scrub the scarlet away until it’s reduced to nothing. On instinct, his fingers fidget at his sides, curling inwards and pressing hard against his palm. His fingernails dig into the flesh. The pain is sharp, his mind clears instantly, and the world comes into focus.

He, decidedly, ignores the diagram and looks over a list of the suits features in the screen’s corner. Questions start popping up in his mind and he latches onto them, using it as a distraction, “It’s incredible, Sir! What’s powering it? Obviously not something similar to your reactor, since the size and exothermic heat from it wouldn’t work for my purposes.” 

His eyes scan across the data, mind racing a mile a minute with the possibilities, “No, that definitely wouldn’t work. I’m assuming you’re using some kind of synthetic polymer. A version of nylon? Woah, it says here that it’s woven with carbon nanotubes throughout it. And what system are you using to process the information?” He scrolls through the list and he notices that several of the options are highlighted in yellow, with the letters “TWP” next to it, “And what does TWP mean?”

When Mr. Stark doesn’t respond, the teen looks up at him. It’s hard to tell what the man is thinking because of the glasses, but it makes him nervous. He freezes, wondering if he did something wrong. But the man just looks back at the screen and types in a few commands. Suddenly, a 3D hologram flickers to life in between them, displaying what Peter guesses are components of the suit.

“Definitely not an arc reactor, instead it’s powered by a glorified phone battery. It’ll need to be charged every couple weeks in order to maintain its electronic functions. There are thousands of minuscule nanotubes sown into the fabric, allowing your suit to be flexible and durable at the same time The system is run by incredibly advanced AI, much like my own-”

Something clicks in Peter’s head, “FRIDAY, right?” He cuts in, “That’s your AI?”

“Correct, but don’t interrupt me. It’s rude.” Mr. Stark rebukes offhandedly.

Fear and shame course through Peter and he looks down at his feet, “Oh. Sorry.”

The man just waves him off and continues, “The AI is connected to FRIDAY and can provide aid through my databases, available resources, and her own capabilities. She’s activated through verbal command and, in some cases, extreme situations that have fail safes in place. However, her uses are extremely restricted for now. Which brings me to your last question…”

Tony Stark reaches up and plucks the sunglasses off the bridge of his nose, a serious expression etched onto his face, “TWP stands for the Training Wheels Protocol. It’s basically the safety net of your suit. After all, I’m giving this multi-million dollar weapon to a teenage convict who has a very concerning list of offenses. It will limit your abilities and what you can do, at least until I’m able to trust you with the entire deal. Got what I’m saying?”

All lightheartedness is sucked from the room and the smile slips off his face. Tension fills Peter’s bones and steals his oxygen. He knows, with utter certainty, that this is one of those rare situations in life where no humor can be found. Not even in the protocol's name. And he wills himself to nod, “Yes.”

The intensity of Mr. Stark’s gaze mellows out and he puts his glasses into his vest pocket before clasping his hands, “Great! Then we're on the same page. You ready to finally get your hands on it?”

Peter’s body relaxes and he takes in a sharp breath. ‘_This is it, time to be Spiderman again_’. He isn’t really sure how he should feel about that, but he still manages to let out a breathy, “Yeah…”

“FRIDAY, open up file 19 and give us project 62.”

“Yes, Boss.” A feminine, irish voice says. She has a surprisingly wispy and human tone for an AI.

Peter’s eyes widen as one of the glass cabinets are illuminated by blue light. The frosted glass look fades away and it becomes clear, allowing the teen to see inside of it. Then the drawer slides open and Mr. Stark pulls a silver suitcase from it. He pushes it into Peter’s arms and the teen takes it with reverence.

The billionaire points to the end of the mini lab, at another door opposite the one they came from. “There’s a bathroom through there, use it to change into your suit.”

Peter walks through the door and shuts it behind him. He places the case onto the sink counter and a shaky hand reaches out and flips the clasp up. It snaps into place with a satisfying click and the suitcase instantly unfolds, neon blue light flooding his vision.

And then the suit - _his suit_ \- emerges from the bottom.

The vibrant blue and the bright, scarlet red.

Guilt slams into him and he screws his eyes tight. It’s stupid, he knows it. They’re just colors, and it makes no sense to be so terrified, so angry, at the sight of them. 

It makes him feel selfish. His hero comes and takes him away from The Center, giving him a chance to feel free again - even if it’s just for a few days - then the billionaire gives him a multi-million dollar suit, only for Peter to _not like the colors_. The fucking colors. Is there anything more selfish than that?

‘_How low can you sink?_’

The boy forces his eyes open and snatches the fabric in one quick motion. He concentrates on the wall instead of on the vibrant suit as he takes off his clothing. The filthy jacket falls to the ground first, followed by the torn shirt, and then the stained jeans. He grabs the suit, stepping into it with a reluctant glance, and pulling it up.

Finally, Peter reaches out and takes the mask, refusing to look into its large, white eyes. He pulls it over his head in one swoop. The world goes dark for all of one second before it lights up again and a voice greets him.

“Hello, Mr. Parker.” Peter jumps, frantically looking around for the source of the voice, “I am your virtual assistant, an AI programmed by Tony Stark for your safety and monitoring while under the Training Wheels Protocol.” He lets out a sigh of relief.

“Right, AI lady, I forgot.”

“That is okay.” She chirps up.

Despite his stress he can’t help but feel in awe. This is pretty cool. Peter rips his eyes from the wall, careful not to look into the mirror as he turns back to the door. He grasps the handle, takes a deep breath, and opens it up.

Mr. Stark looks at him expectantly, and Peter straightens his back, looking his idol in the eyes. The man is the first to speak, “Now you’re Spiderman.”

Pride swells up in Peter and he nods, “Yeah…”

==========

The plane ride had been interesting. Mr. Stark and Peter had talked about the newest breakthroughs in science before the rest of the team got there. But when Black Widow, The Iron Patriot, and Vision boarded, it was like a switch had been flipped. He had instantly quieted down and turned towards the window, and for the rest of the ride the teen had kept to himself. A year ago Peter would have begged them for their signatures, but that’s not the same teen who sat on the plane today.

His mind ordered him, ‘_Keep your head down. Don’t let them notice you._’ and he did just that. He didn’t even dare speak to Mr. Hogan again.

Somewhere along the line, probably around eight o’clock, Peter drifted to sleep. It was, thankfully, a peaceful rest with no dreams or nightmares.

==========

Mr. Hogan walks ahead of Peter, through the hotel lobby with a suitcase in hand. Peter carries a small bag with basic provisions in it. He’s wearing his suit under his old clothes, his mask is safely tucked into his pocket. They quickly get their room keys and are soon searching through the maze of hallways until they come upon their number.

“This is you.” Mr. Hogan points at one door. He slots the keycard into the lock and it clicks open. “Drop off your things and wait in your room for me to come and get you.”

Peter pushes open the door and walks through, “Wow. This is my room?” He whispers to himself.

The door shuts behind him and he reaches for the light switch, flipping it on and taking in the luxury suite. It’s definitely an upgrade from the four concrete walls and the lumpy cots. He walks to the bed and lets himself fall onto it, sighing in pleasure at the way it puffs up and sinks under him. The soft, cool sheets are a stark contrast from the rough, itchy ones at The Center. The teen lets his eyes close for a moment, just letting the feathery mattress comfort him. Warmth surrounds his body as the heater comes to life, and he empties his mind, simply enjoying himself.

For a few blissful moments Peter Parker has no worries.

And then there comes a knock at the door and he shoots up to his feet. With practiced motions he quickly smooths out the creases he made in the bedsheets. Then he turns around to face the door, hands straight at his sides.

In walks Happy Hogan, with something in his hands. “What are you doing?” He asks.

The words compulsively push themselves out of his mouth, a habit carved into his very mind, “Nothing, Sir.”

Mr. Hogan frowns and steps towards him, “Well, I’ve got something you need to put on.” He holds out a large, metal ring.”

Peter hesitantly grabs it, turning it around in his hands and inspecting every side of it. It appears to just be a thick metal bracelet, “Wh-what is it?” he asks.

“A tracking bracelet.” 

Peter feels his heart plummet.

“One of the requirements for bringing you here is that we have to keep tabs on you at all times. Up until now, you’ve either been with Tony or me. But there will be moments in the fight where Tony will lose sight of you and I’ll be tracking your movements through this ankle bracelet.”

Peter runs his hands over the smooth metal, unlike anything he’s ever touched. His eyes widen with realization, “This is made from vibranium.”

Mr. Hogan shoots him a deadpan look, as if he’s just stated the obvious, “We don’t want it coming off during the fight.”

Peter wonders just who they think will take off the tracker. Maybe they’re worried that Captain America’s shield could damage it. Or maybe they’re expecting him to try breaking it off and making a run for it. The last thought makes his stomach twists into knots. Of course they’d prepare for an escape. They don’t trust him.

The teen’s brown eyes dull as he nods his head, “Around the ankle?”

“Yes.” Mr. Hogan pauses for a second before adding, “And why are you still wearing your civilian clothes. You need to suit up.”

He cringes at the thought. He loves the suit, he really does, but the colors are too much right now. Peter doesn’t want to even look at them more than he has to, so he smiles weakly at the man and says, “I… guess I don’t want to mess the suit up on the first day. I-It would really suck if I got it dirty. But my clothes are already dirty… so… yeah.”

The bodyguard stares at him for a second, and Peter worries that he’ll be ordered to leave behind his ratty clothes. But then the man lets out an exasperated breath and says in a tired voice, “Just put the tracker on.”

Without another word the boy reaches down and rolls up his pants leg. The device opens up with a red glow and Peter swallows thickly. He wraps the bracelet around his right ankle and closes it shut. It beeps a couple times and then locks with a click, a green light now emanating from it.

“Let’s go.” Mr. Hogan says, and without another word he walks out the door. Peter lets his jeans roll back down and follows after the man, trying hard to ignore the cold metal clasped around him. At least his clothes hide it.

==========

Peter can’t help but think that the sky is surprisingly sunny for such a serious occasion. In fact, it’s really good weather. Chilly but with warm sunlight taming the cold. 

He hides behind a luggage truck, hidden from view. His feet shuffle across the airport tarmac as he gets into position.

He watches as Captain Freaking America starts walking out into the open area, looking up towards the sky. Peter follows his gaze and sees two glints in the air, coming closer and closer.

The roar of engines start humming in his ears, and Peter watches as Iron Man comes down from the sky, landing on the concrete with a bang. His armour whirs as he straightens himself up, and at the same time The Iron Patriot lands beside him.

“Wow, so weird how you run into people at the airport.” Iron Man says, his voice hard and mocking. His helmet retracts into his suit and the back of the man’s head becomes visible. He turns to his friend, “Weird, isn’t it?”

“Definitely weird.”

Captain America starts talking but it isn’t long before another person joins in. A man, dressed in all black, gracefully jumps through the air and lands on the ground without a sound. Peter doesn’t recognize him, but he goes to stand beside Mr. Stark, so he’s most likely on their side.

The Captain and Stark exchange a couple of words, and they aren’t friendly. He can feel the aggression and tension from the small group and his spidey sense flares up. And then Black Widow steps onto the scene, and the pure danger coming from her sends adrenaline through his body.

Before he got caught and sentenced, Peter had learned quite a few things about the world. He learned that it isn’t always fair, that people can be very cruel in many different ways, and he learned that abandoned warehouses are the safest places to sleep. But, most importantly, he learned to tell when a dangerous, possibly deadly, fight was going to break out. 

There’s a certain way a person’s eyes narrow, taking in the world around them as if it’s the last time they’ll ever see it. Their fingers move at their sides and they begin bouncing on the balls of their feet.

Peter sees these signs in the figures in front of him. And instantly knows that the negotiations have long since broken down. At this point, fighting it out is the negotiation.

He lets his senses grow and they reach out and take in everything. It’s been a long time since he’s concentrated on such a large area, but the strain isn’t unfamiliar to him. The teen has spent a lot of time training this ability to its fullest, and it won’t let him down now. 

He can hear Mr. Stark’s frustration as if the man were shouting it in his own ear. He can smell the scent of sweat and anger. And he’s able to faintly pick up the breathing of five other people.

People that aren’t visible on the tarmac. He knows one of them is Vision, watching from the sky, but the others are unknown. So he focuses on where the four breaths are coming from, and narrows down their locations.

Suddenly, Mr. Stark shouts, “Underoos!”

‘_That’s my cue_’. He springs to his feet, feeling energy coursing through him. He flies through the air, twisting his body and shooting a web - the first web in a very long time. The force of the shot sends a pleasant shock down his arm. It connects with the Captain’s shield and Peter rips it from his hands. Another web later, and the super soldier’s wrists are bound.

As he falls back down he breathes in the rushing wind, and it feels _exhilarating_. He sticks the landing, raising his gaze onto the heroes.

Mr. Stark looks at him, blinks a couple times and then says, “Uh, Kid, why are you still wearing that.” He gestures to his civilian clothes, which Mr. Hogan hadn’t been able to talk him out of.

Embarrassed, Peter ducks his head and blurts out his lie, “Um, I didn’t want to get the suit dirty.” He feels the gazes of everyone train onto him, and he suddenly wishes he never spoke up. The teen is barely able to stop himself from face palming. ‘_That sounded so stupid…_’

Disbelief flashes across the man’s face before he shakes his head, “Y’know what? Sure. Nice job, anyway.”

Pride fills him and washes away his awkwardness. Words begin to rise up from his throat, but he thinks better of it and shuts his mouth. Instead he lifts his fingers to his ear, pressing the button that turns on the comm.

“Thanks. There’s two more people in the parking garage and two in the terminal, by the way.”

Peter hears his words echo from Mr. Stark’s armor and he sees the man’s eyes drift upwards, discreetly scanning the terminal in front of him. 

After a moment he turns back to the Captain and starts talking again. His words get more frustrated with each accusation he sends towards his former teammate, and it isn’t long before he’s shouting.

And then he goes silent, collects himself, and says much quieter this time, “I’m trying to keep you from tearing the Avengers apart.” 

Peter’s heart aches at the desperation in the man’s voice. It’s a broken admission, a moment of genuine sincerity.

The Captain’s face doesn’t waver from his impassive expression. His eyes remain stony, and Peter gets the impression that the Avengers team doesn’t mean as much to him as it does to Mr. Stark. “You did that when you signed.”

The teen sees the way his idol freezes and he understands, in that moment, that Mr. Stark was truly hoping that the Captain would come with him. He recognizes the betrayal in the man’s eyes as his shoulders slump, and he turns away from his old friend. When he looks back there’s a mask of annoyance planted firmly on his face.

It feels almost ghostly; How much Tony Stark’s expression matches the one Peter wore months ago, when it was _him_ being betrayed by someone he considered an ally.

Distantly, he hears a voice which comes from the terminal, “We found it. The Quinjet’s in hangar five, north runway.” The message relays to the Captain’s comm and he raises his webbed arms up.

All eyes are trained on the Cap and suddenly Peter feels his Spidey sense flare. Something’s coming.

He hears a sharp whistle and, with lightning fast reflexes, Peter twists his body to face the sound. His hard earned instincts take over as he shoots up his hand, two fingers folding inwards, and firing out a web.

If someone had blinked while this was happening, they would’ve missed it completely.

Like a real spider, Peter feels the weight of an object pull on his webbing, and he knows that he’s captured it. He swings his arm to the side and it goes clattering to the ground, far away from its target.

It’s an arrow.

No one moves for a solid second and the only thing Peter can hear is a male voice, off in the distance and hidden in the garage, “Holy shit…”

Even Mr. Stark is looking at him, eyes wide.

And then the Captain is shouting, “Lang, now!”

His senses scream at him to move, but before he can do anything he’s being knocked over with a slamming force. Peter falls over and onto his back with a pained grunt and he feels the shield leave his grip.

A man in a red suit literally just came out of nowhere and Peter realizes he is thoroughly done with life.

Another arrow cuts through the air, this time slicing the webbing into two.

From then on it’s a flurry of movements.

He pushes himself to his feet and takes in the scene, which is already chaotic as the teams clash against each other, “Mr. Stark, they know the jet is in hanger five, they’re all heading for it right now.” He says.

Over the comms Peter hears Mr. Starks voice, “I know. You keep your distance and web up Barnes and Wilson. I’ll take Maximoff and Birdie here. Rhodey, you wanna take Cap?”

Peter doesn’t bother to listen to Colonel Rhodes' answer. He’s already running towards the terminal, shooting out webs and crashing through glass. He comes flying down, using the force to kick down the Falcon.

And then he’s back up on his feet, blocking a punch from a metal arm.

Which is really cool, Peter has to admit.

A flash of his Spidey sense makes him dive to the side, he pushes himself back up and aims a web. It shoots out and comes into contact with a wing. His muscles protest as he swings the man into a wall, he smacks into it with a thud and Peter quickly starts webbing him to it.

“What the hell…?” He hears Mr. Metal Arm say.

The Birdy shakes his head and groans, “I dunno man, everyone’s got a gimmick these days.”

Peter’s about to web Falcon’s arm to the wall when sees the other man running towards him. He ducks, feeling the wind rushing past him as the fugitive’s fist flies over his head. He blocks the next punch, then throws his own.

They exchange and dodge blows until Peter hears the sound of tearing. He turns around just in time to see Birdy ripping his webbing off with a vibranium knife. Peter reaches towards Barnes’ outstretched arm and grabs it, throwing the man over his shoulder and at his friend.

“Oh, not cool!” Wilson shouts out as he dodges. He comes flying towards Peter with a gun in hand. Peter’s senses scream, he can smell the charging energy, the burning gunpowder ready to ignite, and he sees the twitch of the Falcon’s trigger finger. He raises his hand and tears the weapon from the man’s grip with a web before it can even be fired. It falls to the ground and Peter webs it up.

The Bird guy - Wilson if Peter remembers correctly - flies over him, wing slicing through the air like a blade. For a split second Peter wonders if they’re made of carbon fibre, the next second he’s bending over to avoid being decapitated.

But then he’s lurching upwards and he can’t help but let out a cry of surprise. His jacket jerks upwards and catches under his head, choking him. Peter grapples at his throat as Wilson holds him by his hood, bringing him higher and higher.

Peter’s vision starts going spotty and panic fuels him with adrenaline. He swings in the man’s grip, folding in and kicking the man in the chest. Hard. A harsh crunching sound pierces his ears at the impact.

The Falcon immediately let’s go of his death grip, and the teen goes plummeting. Breath fills his lungs and he quickly shoots out a web, pulling himself up onto the rafters. He hears the scraping of metal and his senses warn him again. A heavy chunk of debris comes hurtling at him and he grabs it. There is no one visible but he hears labored breathing coming from behind a wall and flings it towards the sound. It goes crashing through, and Peter sees Barne’s just barely dodging.

Peter hears the sound of jets behind him and webs away before the Falcon can kick him off. He twists around in mid air, webs up the man’s ankle, and drags Wilson down with him. The teen lands in a crouch, quickly straightening up and throwing the man to the ground. He lobs webbing into the wing’s jets and they putter out and die.

With a few more well placed webs the man is spread out - ‘_spread eagle, ha bird puns_’ - and stuck to the ground. He wheezes a little and glares up at Peter, “I think you broke a rib.”

Peter flinches and lets out a quiet apology, “Sorry, but you did try to choke me to death.”

And then he hears the quiet thump of footsteps, slow and well placed, and measured breaths that are almost impossible to notice. It’s the sound of a predator that’s been trained to keep silent.

Instantly, he tenses up and turns around, searching the terminal for any sign of the assassin. He pushes his hearing even farther, looking for the source of the noise. Then he hears a sharp clattering and another soon follows. Then three more.

Confusion clouds Peter’s mind and he starts glancing around a bit more nervously. A couple seconds tick by and nothing happens.

Suddenly, an earth shattering blast sends Peter to his knees. He grips his ears, screaming in pain as another goes off, then another, and finally the last two. The world warps as his hearing turns into painful ringing and his vision fades in and out. He screws his eyes shut.

Off in the distance, or maybe right next to him, he vaguely hears someone, “...ome... ge... up.”

“Can’t… th… ebs…”

“L…t me… use… your knife.”

“Lost… in… figh…”

The ringing starts fading a little and Peter’s hearing starts coming back. But the pain keeps him down.

Some grumbling later and someone - probably Falcon - says, “He’s totalled my wings and taken one of my guns. I’ll be useless in the fight anyways.”

“I’m out of grenades, but we gotta go. Steve’s calling us.”

“Can’t break out of these… webs? I don’t know but it’s pretty gross. Just go, and if you can get Cap to break me out with his shield, that would be great."

He hears the sound of retreating footsteps and takes a second to breathe. ‘In and out, in and out’. Anxiety curls itself into his stomach and his body trembles. Nausea wells up in him. Everything is so loud, so bright. He hears the punches and blasts from outside, he picks up the scent of blood and sweat, light burns into his eyes. It hurts.

Inhale… exhale.

Inhale… exhale.

Inhale… exhale.

After what feels like hours, the teen is able to gain a hazy sense of the world again. He struggles to get up, but his feet stumble and he goes crashing back down. Pain goes rushing across his body, every nerve lighting up at the harsh motion, and he gasps sharply.

“Hey, you… you okay there?” Wilson speaks up uncertainly. Now that his hearing is back, it sounds like screaming.

It’s a sensory overload. He lies down on the ground and focuses solely on breathing. Peter ignores the rest of the world as he desperately tries to push his senses down to a controllable level. He forces down his hearing, vision, smell, touch, and even taste until it’s barely better than an average human’s.

When the pain fades away to a dull ache, Peter lifts himself off the ground and onto his feet. For a second, he pauses and allows himself to think. ‘_I’m out of my league. My senses are working against me. And I’m fighting against the Avengers._’

‘_I should just give up. Mr. Stark will take me back to The Center and I can just… just…_’

His thoughts falter and he looks down. He feels the cold grip of the tracker and frowns, ‘_What can I do? Nothing at the center. But… here, even when controlled, I’m still doing something. I’m making a difference and fighting for the people._’

With an aching heart he looks to the exit and at the battle on the tarmac, ‘_I’ve spent too long running away from my responsibilities._’

He takes in a large breath as his eyes dart around the room. His fingers twitch at his side and his body tenses, readying for danger. He strides to the terminal door, pulls it open, and rejoins the fight outside. Behind his mask, determination burns in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow... I wrote a way longer chapter than normal. Three times as long as my usual! I'm not the best at fight scenes but I hope I did good, and I hope ya'll liked it! :)
> 
> Did ya notice the difference between canon Peter and this Peter (other than his crippling anxiety)? Welp, for one, his powers are all sorts of skewed for very specific - and not very fun - reasons.
> 
> Have a nice day!


	6. Trust Me

**11 Months Ago (Dec 18)**

Pain screams through his chest. He hears erratic beeping. A tight, muggy mask is tied securely over his mouth, he feels plastic jammed down his throat, forcing down stale air. Panicked voices speak quickly, their owners lost in the darkness surrounding him. A blurry fog weighs down on his mind, clouding his thoughts and leaving him sluggish. He can barely register their words.

“He’s… waki… up…”

“...Up… the… osage…”

“We… nee… his rib… ou… now…”

Another pang of pain laces through the boy and panic starts flooding into him. He can _feel_ the shifting of shattered bone digging into his flesh, and every nerve lights on fire. His body reacts without permission, making oxygen flood his lungs in a sharp breath, sending a knife-like pain through his abdomen. He seizes up, eyes snapping open in fear and adrenaline.

His panic grows as he sees a horrifying view of splattered red against sterile blue. Blinding light burns his eyes and he screws them tight, but the image in his head doesn’t fade.

Behind his eyelids, he sees people in masks and blank outfits, only marred by the stark contrast of bright red on their hands and arms. There’s the glinting color of silver scalpels, sharp and dangerous. Tubes feeding him with thick, cold blood, and machines screaming around him.

Under all the chaos of sound, Peter hears the words, “Put him… under…!”

He wants to scream, he wants to stop this - to get somewhere, anywhere else but here - but his aching senses and confusion keep his jaw locked tight. A chilled feeling worms its way into his veins, freezing him from the inside out. He feels his mind being pulled down, weighed by something unstoppable as it’s dragged deeper and deeper into unconsciousness.

Peter is swallowed in an empty sleep.

==========

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

When Peter Benjamin Parker wakes up for the first time in two days, his first thought is that his alarm clock sounds different. It puts him on edge. It's a sharp, high sound that is nothing like the one at home.

Home…

This isn’t home.

In an instant he’s shooting up from his bed, looking around frantically at the unfamiliar room. The walls and tiled flooring are white and impersonal, with a tv hanging in the corner that's turned off. A window on the side of this small room shows a gray parking lot, littered with trash. There is a heavy smell of chemicals in the air, it burns his nose and Peter notices that it’s masking another scent. ‘_Sickness_’ he thinks as his heart sinks, ‘_and death._”

His doe eyes dart around, tense and nervous. After a moment they fall on an IV that’s hooked up to a bag of medicine and piercing into his arm.

‘_Oh God… an IV. I’m in a hospital…_’

“What happened…?” he whispers to himself. The words struggle past his chapped, busted lips. And that’s when he notices all the little pains. His mouth is parched, his skin littered with ugly cuts, and his whole body aches, especially his torso. Curiosity bubbles up in Peter and he brushes his fingers across his chest, a little under his abs, and winces in pain. He reaches to the neckline of his hospital gown, pulling it outwards and looking down at the damage. His throat closes up a little at the sight of thick bandages around his body, covering the area his ribs would be.

He loosens his grip on the fabric and lets it fall down again. The boy realizes, with a start, that he doesn’t really know much. Not how he got here, or how long he’s been in this room, or even what day it is. Everything is just a vague recollection of feelings and blurry memories.

There was a loud screeching… the sound of shattering… then everything became silent. He remembers being scared of red splashed onto blue. And now he’s here, in this room so far removed from anything familiar, he might as well be on a different planet.

No one is sitting by his bedside. Not May, not Ben… no he wouldn’t be here. But May would. A sinking feeling pulls at his chest and Peter knows, with absolute certainty, that something went very, very wrong.

‘_I need answers._’ he thinks to himself. He needs something, _anything_, to ground him in this foreign place.

And if he's in a hospital, there's got to be a way to get answers. After a little bit of looking around, Peter finds a green button strapped to his bed’s railing. It’s labelled with worn down letters from being pressed so often.

BUZZ FOR NURSE

His thumb runs across the cool surface of the button and he pushes it. A small noise comes out. He heaves himself up so that he’s sitting against the wall and puts his hands in his lap. On the wall is a clock, with nothing else to do, Peter focuses on the ticking hands.

One minute passes. Then another. Five more go by and Peter frowns. Time slowly passes and when three more minutes pass, Peter starts thinking the button is broken. Just as he's about to get up and look for someone, the door to his room finally opens.

A woman walks through the entrance. She has tan skin, short black hair, and blue scrubs. On her name tag are the words, Nurse: Temple. She gives a small smile to Peter, then glances down at her clipboard for a second before walking up to him, “Hello Mr. Parker. Do you need anything?”

Her voice is professional but her warm smile puts him at ease. He blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, “Where’s my aunt?” Peter wrings his hands in his lap and looks down as he gathers his thoughts, “What I mean… is that I don’t really know what happened. Am I okay? Is my Aunt, May Parker, okay?”

Again, Nurse Temple turns her eyes down to the clipboard, scanning it with a slight frown. Peter’s heart drops a little, and his body goes cold. The heart monitor starts beeping quicker, and the nurse is quick to notice.

She forces her lips in a reassuring smile, “It’s okay Mr. Parker, your Aunt is in stable condition. You two were in a car accident, and you had to go under surgery. You’ve been unconscious for three days. But, you’re expected to make a full recovery. Chances are you’ll be out of here in a week, if the doctors let you.”

A breath of air floods out of his lungs and past his lips, and Peter’s shoulders sag a little in relief. May is fine… She’s stable.

Another question pops up in his mind, and the words leave him in an eager rush. His tone is hopeful, something that could be compared to a lost puppy, “When can I see my Aunt, ma’am?”

Nurse Temple’s reassuring smile doesn’t leave her lips. But when he glances at her dark eyes, he sees sympathy leaking through. He notices the way her brow furrows, and how the lines in her face show an age that doesn’t match her body.

“I’m very sorry, but the damage she sustained in the wreck hurt her a lot. She’s been placed into a medically induced coma.”

Peter looks away, his heart weighing heavy again. He focuses on the linoleum floor, but his mind has gone blank and his eyes don’t see. A simple word escapes, “Oh.”

Ms. Temple speaks some more, but it all sinks into the background, as if Peter is submerged in water and can only hear vague sounds. Eventually, she leaves through the door, shutting it with a light click as she goes on her way down to another patient. Peter doesn’t really register that either.

He got his answers, and they leave him tired and drained. Or maybe it’s the medication, Peter isn’t quite sure anymore. All he does is lie back down, thinking through the facts and trying to align them with reality. They don’t fit, though. It feels like just yesterday he was listening to Christmas carols with his aunt, joking with her. In his mind, Aunt May was _OK_, just minutes ago.

Peter closes his eyes as he tries to get this hospital to register in his mind. It takes too much energy though and it overloads his brain, so he lets his heavy eyes close and stops thinking.

==========

For the next two weeks Peter goes through the motions of healing. He wakes up each morning and stares out the window, or maybe he watches something on the TV, if he's feeling up to it. Sometime around 7:30 a nurse will come into his room with a plastic tray of tasteless food. Even his enhanced taste buds can barely pick up any flavor. By 8:40 a nurse will come in to check on him and to ask if he needs anything, and Peter always answers the same thing:

"I'm fine, ma'am. Is my aunt ok?"

Some of them give him a practiced smile and try to soothe his nerves, they tell him she’s healing, and it’s best to let her sleep. They’re professionals, so Peter trusts them. He has no choice but to believe they’re right, that Aunt May will be okay. But he still can’t really connect May to the word “coma”, as if those two things could never really come together.

At 1:00 he'll be given lunch, and be allowed out of bed for a few simple exercises to keep his muscles healthy. At 6:30 he's given dinner. And at 9:30 he's put to bed.

Sometimes it's Ms. Temple taking care of him, and soon she begins using his first name. Probably a technique to keep kids comfortable. Peter scoffs a little at the idea, he’s not a child. Yet, he doesn’t deny the small comfort.

On his second day here a middle aged woman comes into his room and speaks with him. She introduces herself as a Child Services worker, and asks him a few questions. It's simple things, like his name and if he has any family to stay with. Peter shakes his head for the latter. He has no living relatives other than his Aunt. They are the very last of the Parkers.

Her questions wear on his nerves and leave him feeling a little sick.

His thoughts whisper traitorous things. They’re the kind of words that pop up in the minds of those who have lost a lot.

The only highlight of his stay is when his friends visit him during the weekend. Ned and MJ bring balloons and a card that's been signed by everyone from class and the academic challenge team. Even flash wrote down his name, though Peter suspects MJ threatened him into it. Their visit cheers him up a little and brings him out of his shock, his friends were the only thing familiar in days, and it helped bring the hospital into reality.

At one point, he was wheeled into a room and placed under a large machine. The X-Ray scanned him, and Peter was careful not to move.

The doctors pulled him out after a few minutes. Peter watched him from his seat as the man looked through some files, flipping through with an aggravated look on his face.

"Is anything wrong?" Peter asks, curious.

The doctor shakes his head, "Oh, it's nothing much. Just a misprint in some documents. It says you shattered your ribs it four different places, but from what I see, the damage isn't nearly as bad. Only two minor shatters on the left and some cracks along the right side of your rib cage."

He shakes his head a little and goes to the phone, "Don't worry, I'll get this misprint fixed. And by the looks of it, you'll be out sooner than we expected."

Peter deftly nods as he feels the color drain from his face. Thankfully, the doctor doesn't notice as he makes his call. But Peter feels sick as a thought crosses his mind and settles in the pit of his stomach.

He knows without a doubt that it’s not a misprint. And a new thought dawns on him that hadn’t crossed his mind, '_I'm healing too quickly and the hospital is going to notice if they keep digging._'

For the rest of his stay, Peter doesn't relax. All he can see when he closes his eyes is people coming into his room. In his nightmares they bust through the door during the night, dressed in all black, and they carry him away because they _know who he is_. He can't help but go tense every time he hears the sound of footsteps padding towards his room. His hair stands on end when he feels someone behind him, almost as if he's expecting someone to grab his shoulder and say the word, _Spiderman_.__

So Peter is careful. He starts eating less so his healing factor slows down, his ears automatically tune into his surroundings, searching for any threat. For two weeks nothing happens, the doctors might notice something, but no one says anything. Maybe they're too swamped with their work to notice how quickly he's healing?

He’s so occupied with worry that he doesn’t even notice when Christmas day rolls around. The only thing that reminds him is a Christmas Card delivered by Ms. Temple, which was made by a class of Kindergartners. It makes Peter smile, and once the nurse leaves he feels his eyes grow wet. How many cards had he made just like this? With the help of his mom and dad, and later on, Uncle Ben and Aunt May? He reads through the well wishes, then gently places the card on his nightstand. He’ll have to remember to write a letter back to the school, thanking them.

And then, on the fourteenth day he's been in the hospital, Nurse Temple visits him again. It's late and he sees her tired eyes, but ignores it in favor of the wheelchair she's got in her grasp.

"Hello Peter." She greets him warmly.

He looks at the chair warily, his head tilting a little as a question forms in his mind, "Hello Ms. Temple. What's going on… I mean, why do you have a wheelchair today?"

She brings the chair over to his bed, an exhausted grin on her face, "You're being let out today, the docs have finally decides that you're free to go!"

Hope bubbles up in his chest and he sits up straighter, "Does that mean May is awake?"

She shakes her head and his heart drops, "I'm sorry, Peter. She's still under, and the doctors think it might be a while before she's healthy enough to be brought out."

"Oh."

"It's going to be okay. Child services will be taking you for the time being. It's only temporary. Now, c'mon, get in the chair."

Child services are taking him away and he feels disappointment floods through him.

He quickly steers his mind away from May, and focuses on the first distraction that comes to mind, "A wheelchair though? I can walk just fine!" Peter grumbles, weakly. He gets into the chair anyways, heat burning in his cheeks.

Nurse Temple lets out a small chuckle, then says in her no nonsense voice, "Sorry, Peter, but its hospital policy. Everyone is rolled out in one of these things. It stops us from getting sued."

“Ah, yeah, that makes sense.” He admits, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling embarrassed.

She grabs his cards from his stand, the one from his school and the Kindergarten, and hands it to him. “Personally, I wish I could go with you.”

The teen looks at her, feeling sympathetic, “Not much sleep lately?” He asks, knowing every bit what that feels like. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, “Are you working extra shifts or something?”

Ms. Temple averts her eyes for a second, with a look that Peter doesn’t understand. When she turns back there’s a wry expression on her face, “Yeah, something like that.”

They continue down the hospital halls, an easy conversation flowing between them. By the time Peter is dropped off he is feeling better. He says goodbye to Ms. Temple, and she waves as she heads off.

He’s in a private waiting room, clearly made for kids if the box of toys and the light blue walls are any indication. Waiting for him is the same social worker who talked to him when he first woke up. She stands up from her seat and greets him with a clipped voice, a little detached and worn out

“Good evening, Peter.”

“Hello, ma’am.”

“I’m sure the nurse has told you why I am here.” She pauses, and when Peter gives her a nod, she continues, “I’ll be taking you to a group home in Queens, it’s just for temporary placement, but with your case I don’t think you’ll need a long term home.”

Peter is grateful for that.

“Now, it’s very cold out there, so you’ll have to put on some different clothes.” All of a sudden Peter becomes very aware of the fact that the only thing he is wearing is a drafty hospital gown. She holds out a bundle of cloth, and points to a bathroom on the side of the room. She wheels him into the room saying, “Call me when you’re done.” before leaving him to change.

Peter is quick to get out of the chair and take off his hospital gown and throw it away. He stares a little at the large bandages wrapped around his torso. Some of the bruising flares out past it, showing darkly colored bruises. Underneath is stitching, which is thankfully dissolvable. At least he won’t have to make up an excuse to get them taken out early. Or worse, take them out himself before his skin heals over it. Peter winces at the thought. He looks away from the mirror, grabs the thick bundle of clothing, and slips it on. He gets back on the chair before calling out for the social worker.

She comes in, goes to grab the handles of his chair, and begins pushing him through the doors. She starts talking about the group home as they go along, “It’s a very good place, you’ll like it there. The owner of the home has taken on a lot of boys over the years and helped them get through difficult times.”

Peter hums in agreement as they roll out the door and into the snowy parking lot, leaving the chair behind. He walks just fine, despite the dull throb from his ribs. They get into her car and then they’re off through the crowded streets of New York City. After so long stuck in the hospital, Peter is just happy to be outside.

The drive is mostly silent, with the social worker bringing up a couple facts about the group home as they go along. Apparently it is close enough to Midtown for him to keep attending after holiday break ends. That’s a large relief for Peter, he could use something familiar in his life right now. She also tells him about the man who will be fostering him. Apparently he has a lot of years of experience fostering kids with trauma.

It leaves Peter feeling very mixed about the situation. Hesitant, maybe. Definitely nervous. After all, he was a complete and utter stranger. But she seems confident in this man, so staying with him couldn’t be that bad.

When they finally pulled into the driveway of the house, exhaustion was just beginning to weigh on Peter. It really was getting late, nearly 11 PM. And having gone to bed so early for the past two weeks had left him feeling groggy.

He faintly takes notice of the home in front of him. It’s a somewhat large brown brick building, with two stories and a small lawn in front. Every other house on this street looks somewhat similar, only varying in color or a small change in shape. A very average neighborhood.

The sensor light above the door clicks on as Peter and the social worker trudge through the snow. The chilled air makes their breaths visible, and they rush to the door, hoping to escape the cold. She lifts her hand and presses the doorbell. He can hear it ring throughout the house. It isn’t long before steps are lightly thudding along the floor as they come closer.

Peter feels his nerves jumble up as he hears the knob twist in someone’s grip. The hinges creak a little as the door swings open and warm air rushes onto them.

A man is at the door, maybe in his younger forties, with a welcoming smile plastered to his face. His blonde hair, which has oddly gone almost white with age, is his most striking feature. Peter drags his eyes away from it, trying not to be rude.

The man holds out his hand, “Ah! You must be Peter, right?”

The boy pauses for a second before thrusting out his own hand, trying to return the smile and be polite, “Yeah, that’s me.”

They shake hands, his cold grip meeting with a warm one. The man’s hold lingers for just a beat too long, and Peter awkwardly pulls his hand away.

“Oh well, come inside. You too, Ma’am. It must be really cold out there.” He suggests.

The social worker shakes her head, “Sorry I can’t stay, I’ve got to be off now. It’s pretty late. You have all the paperwork finalized, and I’ll be back to check on things in a week. Please take care now, Peter.”

“You too…” Peter begins, but she’s already turning away, heading quickly to her car. He watches as she gets in, and begins pulling out the driveway. By the time she’s on the road, the man is already pulling Peter inside.

The door shuts and he turns around to face this complete stranger, not quite sure what to do with himself.

He looks Peter up and down, and the boy shrinks a little under his gaze. He must notice this because he chuckles and shakes his head, “No need to be nervous. I won’t bite.”

Peter tries to force a smile, but it comes out more like a grimace, “Sorry, Sir.”

“Oh, none of that '_sir_’ stuff.” The man lightly scolds, “My name is Steven Wescott, but you can call me Skip if you’d like.”

Peter nods along and settles for a slightly more formal name, “Ok, Mr. Wescott.”

Wescott’s smile wilts a little before he takes on a teasing voice, “Alright, we’ll work on that while you’re here. But I bet by the end of your stay you’ll be calling me Skip like we’ve known each other for years. _Trust me_, Peter, you’ll like it here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhhhh IT'S BEEN FOREVER! I had such a big problem trying to write this chapter, but hopefully it came out alright. I swear I'll put about another two chapters soon to make up for the long absence!


	7. The Bad Things

“...he looks to the exit and at the battle on the tarmac, ‘_I’ve spent too long running away from my responsibilities._’

…He strides to the terminal door, pulls it open, and rejoins the fight outside. Behind his mask, determination burns in his eyes.”

With a new burst of energy he moves faster than ever before, the wind rushes in his ears as he swings to the tarmac. The fighting figures get closer and closer to him with each swoop. He’s close, right over their heads, when he sees the Captain and the man in red, - the one who knocked him over - group together. The man, who Peter thinks is named ‘Lang’, tosses Captain America something and shows him a small disk.

“Throw it as this.” The man says, “Now!”

Confused, Peter lands behind the two and watches as they throw their objects in sync. They collide and with a loud whir he sees a truck appear out of nowhere. No, not nowhere, it grew.

“Holy shit…” he mutters, his eyes widening as he stumbles back in shock.

It flies through the air and Peter is hit with the strong scent of gasoline, he hears gallons upon gallons of gas splashing inside the container mounted on the truck’s bed. It hurtles, on a straight path towards his allies.

‘_It’s gonna blow_’ his instincts shout at him.

Peter starts running before he even knows what he’s doing. His legs tense under him, his stride stretching out and pushing down. The teen leaps through the air, high above the heads of the Captain and Lang. He stretches his arms out, both of them taking aim and shooting out strings of webbing. They cling onto the truck and wrap around it. Peter takes a deep breath, pulling back with all his strength. His muscles strain and burn, they tear and he feels a yelp try to escape, but he pushes it down and focuses.

He swings his arms over his head, not only stopping the truck but sending it back the way it came. The Captain immediately turns around, running away as the truck descends. Lang is not so lucky. He stumbles in shock as he takes in the oncoming vehicle and for a second Peter worries that he won’t move in time. But then the man comes to his senses and takes off just as it comes crashing down.

With an ear shattering crash the truck explodes, sending flames out and even pushing Peter back with the blast. Black smoke clouds the clear sky and for a split second everyone goes silent and looks at the damage.

Then the comm crackles on and Colonel Rhodes speaks, “Tony, where’d you get this guy?”

“Linkedin, obviously.”

Peter heaves a sigh as he gets his footing. He’s suddenly very glad that he turned down his senses earlier. The relief is short lived as he looks at the fire, searching for the man in red. No one emerges and sick worry surges through him. He starts walking to the crash, looking for any sign of Lang.

“Underoos, what are you doing?” Mr. Stark asks.

Peter ignores him, he ignores the heat, and he ignores the smoke.

‘_You always hurt people_’ a traitorous voice whispers, his heart sinks. Peter keeps walking to the wreck.

‘_The bad things happen because of you._’

Through the smoke and jagged metal he sees a figure lying down, Peter fears the worst as he jumps through the debris to get closer. The man’s outfit is charred in places, a couple rips in the fabric reveal his skin, and one of his lenses are cracked. He faintly smells blood and feels his shoulders droop as his inner voice tells him venomous things.

Suddenly a harsh breath escapes Lang and relief floods the teen. The flames lick at his feet and he’s careful to avoid them as he runs to the man, bending down and scooping him up. Peter's arms protest, the tears in his muscles still hurting, but he heaves him onto his shoulder anyways.

“Underoos?” Mr. Stark’s voice comes on again.

Peter turns on his comm, “I’ve got Lang.”

“You mean the guy fighting on the other team?” Agitation leaks into the man’s voice.

Peter winces, “Yeah, sorry.” He turns off his comm and places Lang onto the tarmac, careful not to hurt him anymore. He’s pretty sure the guy’s unconscious, at least for now, “Sorry about that.” Peter apologizes to him anyways.

He wants to stay and make sure that the guy is okay, but the fight isn’t over yet and he knows that the only option is to keep going. Both teams have regrouped and are facing off against one another, and Peter begins running to his own, his arms too painful to swing there. But as he gets closer he feels the minor injury fade as his body begins healing. The muscles sew back together and in the minute it takes to get to his team it’s already been reduced to a dull ache. It's the magic of being a mutated freak of nature.

When he takes his place in between Colonel Rhodes and Vision a burst of excitement floods through him. And maybe a little dread. Wilson is still missing and with Lang passed out the other team is down to only four fighters. Hawkeye, Scarlet Witch, Captain America, and the Winter Soldier.

Peter’s own team is still intact and they’re the only thing stopping team Cap from getting to the Quinjet and escaping.

Then Captain Rogers begins walking forwards and the rest of his team follows his lead.

Next to him Black Widow mutters under her breath, “I didn’t sign up for this.”

Peter's Spidey sense spikes and he looks at her warily before turning back to the other team. '_That's probably not good._'

Mr. Stark begins walking next, and the rest of them do the same. Soon they’re running and the Avengers who can fly take off. The two groups collide, punches are thrown, and debris goes flying everywhere. Peter jumps to dodge a car wrapped in magic, only for the red light to surround him and send him flying. He smacks into the ground and groans.

'_Magic?! You've gotta be kidding me… I'm really out of my league._'

Something whistles through the air and he scrambles to get up, it slices through his jacket, pinning the fabric and himself to the ground. The arrow starts beeping and his senses scream at him to move. Cursing in his mind, Peter claws at his jacket, stripping it off and leaping out of the way just in time. The arrowhead explodes, sending bits of concrete everywhere.

Slightly dazed, Peter looks away from the blast, just in time to see a boot smacking into his face, “You’ve been a real pain.” his attacker says.

Peter loses his balance for a moment, but quickly flips away and launches into the air. He points his wrists at his opponent, Hawkeye. Webbing shoots out and onto the bow and Peter tosses it aside as he lands.

He has a quip on the tip of his tongue, but stops himself as he remembers some old advice someone once gave him. If advice is what you could call it. The memory flashes in his mind as he gets into fighting stance without a word.

_“You’re too loud Pete. You talk too much and that can be dangerous.” They had said._

_Shame washed through the boy as he grabbed the first aid kit, “But it distracts them…” Peter had argued feebly, his mind was foggy from blood loss._

_He remembers that they had grabbed the box from his hands and opened it up, “Sit down, let me do this.” They had taken out tweezers and moved it to his side, which was bare. The cold metal dug into the wound and Peter’s mind was forced into clarity from pain. He gritted his teeth to hold down a scream. They were not gentle._

_“It’s not smart. You’re not here to be a comedian. Keep your head down, your lips sealed, and don’t let anyone notice you.” Their voice was stern, dangerous even, but Peter knew they were only looking out for him._

_“Ok…”_

_The tweezers were pulled out and the bullet fell onto the table with a clang._

Peter knows every detail of that day. He feels ghostly pain radiate from his side, as if he were still injured there, but chooses to ignore it. Those days are behind him now.

Hawkeye comes running at him, an arrow in hand like a knife. Peter jumps away, careful to keep his distance. Another glob of webbing goes shooting from him but Hawkeye dodges last minute. They repeat this dance, Hawkeye coming at Peter only for the teen to jump away and try sticking him down with webbing. The teen realizes too late that they’ve drifted towards the bow, and with a quick slice of the arrowhead, the weapon is free from the webs and back in the archer’s grasp.

His senses yell at him to move, but common sense has him swinging away already. Despite this, an arrow comes soaring at Peter so quickly he can’t get out the way completely. It slices the side of his leg, going through both his jeans and suit for a clean cut. Peter hisses as sharp pain radiates out and red, hot blood escapes. That won’t heal as fast as his arms.

‘_I can’t keep this up forever, I’ve got to end it quickly._’

He changes direction in a sharp turn, keeping his eyes on the man. With inhuman speed he gets behind him and webs his way down, crashing his good leg into Hawkeye’s back and sending both of them down.

Hawkeye hits the tarmac with a thud, wheezing as the air escapes his lungs, “Ah… man…” He gasps out.

Peter’s triumph is short lived as someone tackles him from the side, the weight coming with him and pinning him to the ground. With shock he looks up at the face of Black Widow, her eyes wide and glancing back at Hawkeye.

“Why?” He asks, a heavy feeling weighing in his chest. Why was she fighting against him?

“He’s my friend.” She says before twisting her wrist. Her widow bites come on, electricity coursing through them. In one fluid motion she’s off his body, dragging him up with her, the bites hovering only hairs away from his neck.

Peter doesn’t dare to move, not even when he hears Hawkeye come near him, the man pulls back an arrow and aims, Peter feels ice cold fear course up his body, sure that this is it for him.

But the arrow lands at his feet and releases a net, which wraps around his feet and legs tightly. Another arrow hits his chest and constricts his arms to his body. ‘_Not cool_’.

Widow turns off her bites and loosens her grip, letting him fall onto the tarmac. Hawkeye approaches her wearily, his bow loaded and drawn, “We’re good?”

She nods and faintly smiles, “Yeah. Besides, it looks like you guys need my help.”

A relieved grin stretches across Hawkeye’s face and he speaks into his comm, “Guys, Nat is with us.”

Peter groans and hits his head on the concrete in frustration as the two head off back into the fight. Mr. Stark isn’t gonna be happy about that.

He wriggles around a little, careful not to upset the cut on his leg. The net is made from metal cords which hold firm, no doubt made to contain superhuman strength. Peter lies there for a while, his arms unable to get to his comm and the battle too far away to call for help.

At some point Mr. Stark announces that Black Widow has changed sides, and orders that she should be treated as another fugitive. Peter hears the hurt in his voice and frowns.

Just as he’s wondering if he’s going to be stuck here for the rest of the afternoon, a stroke of good luck comes waltzing his way.

Ironically, it’s in the form of a black cat.

Which just so happens to be flying through the sky and crashing into an airport loading dock. Peter cringes, that probably hurt.

But the mysterious black cat steps out just fine, with not a scratch on his armor. In fact, it looks like the metal is pulsing a little, as if it’s absorbed the impact… _Vibranium_, it must be!

Peter feels hope swell up in his chest and, to be honest, a little desperation, “Sir! You, the black cat!” He shouts out.

The man pauses and looks over to him as he drops from the airport dock and onto his feet.

“Can you get me out?!” He shouts, loud enough for his voice to carry to the man, who is a good ways away from him.

He hesitates, looking from Peter to the fight, then back again. For a hot second Peter is worried that he’ll just leave him but then he comes running at full speed towards Peter. Claws extend out his hand and the teen flinches, uncertain and more than a little worried. But he stays still. The guy reaches down and smoothly cuts across the netting, freeing Peter and getting back up the next moment. He’s off without another glance back.

Peter starts after him, but winces as his right leg sends a shock through his body. He looks down at the cut and grimaces.

“This will have to do for now…” He quietly mutters as he aims his wrist at his leg. He pulls the trigger and lets out a sharp gasp as webbing hits the injury, creating a makeshift bandage.

Then he sets back off, swinging his way back to the action. He’s back to webbing people up and dodging strikes when Cap’s shield brings him down. He goes tumbling and barely manages to stick the landing. His eyes gaze at the shield and he analyzes it quickly, finding no return mechanism that brings it back to the captain electronically. Weird that it acts like a boomerang despite not having the physical properties to do that. But it was made by Howard Stark, so what does he know?

“You’re pretty strong kid, but you don’t know who you’re fighting for. You don’t understand.” The Captain says in an ‘adult voice’. But the whole ‘trust me, I’m an adult’ schtick doesn’t really work on Peter anymore.

So he doesn’t say anything, just thrusts out his arms and webs the man’s legs up. He kicks him with his good leg and sends the man flying.

They exchange blows and kicks, and Peter is hit more than he’d like to admit. His eyes land on an airport bridge and he swings his way up onto the high ground.

Captain America looks up at him, “Why are you helping Stark?”

Peter remembers Mr. Stark’s words, “_He’s wrong, but he believes he’s right. That’s Rodgers for you, the righteous boy scout of America._” However, Peter has another bone to pick with this guy. Betraying a friend is not something that he takes lightly. It’s personal, and when the teen looks at the man’s face he wants to hit it as if it were all the people who did the same thing to him.

But he says none of that and instead swings back down, aiming at Mr. Rogers. But he’s too quick and Peter feels the impact before he sees it. He goes hurtling back under the bridge, colliding with a large metal support. He lets out a grunt and falls onto the cement.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Cap asks, and Peter wants to let out a bitter laugh.

‘_No, not anymore._’

Suddenly, the shield comes flying in his direction, soaring into the metal supports and sending them off kilter. The bridge comes crashing down and Peter is just barely able to get up and grab a hold of it. The weight bares down on him and his legs quiver under the strain. He looks up at the Avenger, the one he used to draw pictures of as a little kid, the one that's divided Earth's Mightiest Heroes, and he narrows his eyes.

The captain sighs and turns away, “Nice talk, anyways. You’ve got heart kid.”

Peter freezes. He wants to take those words and hurl it back at him.

_"You’re a good kid, Pete."_

Peter chases away the voice, no, the _memory_. He doesn’t really believe it anymore.

==========

By the time Peter is able to get out from the terminal he sees Lang is back on the playing field… except Lang is suddenly bigger. Like, _huge_. He’s still scorched and worse for wear but still kicking.

And oh my God is that the colonel in his hand?!

“Ok tiny dude is big now. He’s big now.” Rhodes says.

“Give me back my Rhodey.” Mr. Stark demands.

Suddenly the Iron Patriot goes flying through the air as Lang throws him. Peter goes after him, webbing onto him and only just keeping him from crashing into a jet. Then he’s soaring through the air, attached onto the superhero and flying towards Big Lang.

He watches as the enlarged superhero - vigilante? fugitive? - rips apart an airplane with his bare hands, tossing the pieces apart like toys. One nearly hits Mr. Stark.

The millionaire flies out the way and up, taking stock of the situation, “Ok, anybody on our side hiding any shocking and fantastic abilities they’d like to disclose? I’m open to suggestions.”

‘_Well, I haven’t figured out how to talk to spiders yet, but I’ll tell you when I figure it out._’ Peter thinks to himself.

Big Lang reaches down, about to snatch up the black cat man, when Peter lets go of his web, soaring at seventy miles per hour right into the side of Big Lang’s head. The big guy loses balance for a moment and Peter and the Colonel work together to take him down.

Peter crawls onto a giant lense, the one that isn’t cracked, and starts webbing it up to block his view.

“I really don’t like you, man.” Big Lang says as he flings Peter off.

When Peter gets back up he sees Vision knocking the giant over, and suddenly an idea strikes him. He and Ned used to be big fans of Star Wars, and even though it’s been a long time since he’s seen the movies, he’s watched them enough to know them by heart.

Besides, Hawkeye and Widow pretty much did the same thing to him a couple minutes ago.

He raises his arm to his comm as he starts running, webbing onto the man’s legs with a thwip, “I’ve got an idea. We tie up his legs and knock him down. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

Big Lang tries to reach him, but with each swing of his arm his balance starts swaying. Rhodes comes in and starts attacking the knees which gets him to stumble even more.

“You might be on to something. Rhodes, c’mon.” Mr. Stark commands.

“Alright, Tony, go high.”

They come in with the roar of mighty engines and Peter watches in excitement as they slam into Lang, sending him crashing down with a loud thud. Peter’s lips twitch up at the small victory. But then his Spidey sense flares up and he dodges out the way of a giant, rogue arm. His landing is on the rougher side, with the right leg in pain, but he stays on his feet.

Then his comm statics on and Rhode’s voice echoes in his suit, “Rodgers and Barnes are heading to the terminal.”

“What? Why?” Mr. Stark asks.

Before Peter can answer Rhodes is speaking up, “They’re probably going after Wilson, I haven’t seen him this entire fight.”

“Good, that’s bought us some time. Head there if you're not engaged in a fight, we take out those two and their whole group falls.”

Peter aims for the terminal, about to web off before he turns back to Lang, whose smaller again and definitely out for the count. “Just to make sure…” He mumbles to himself as he webs the man down. There’s no way he’s getting back up this time.

Then he’s back off to the terminal.

==========

The terminal was destroyed because of the grenades. They had left all the windows shattered and chunks of debris everywhere.

Peter lands onto the ground and scans the area until his eyes land on the retreating backs of the Captain, Barnes, and Wilson. He starts after them and seconds later the black cat joins him in the chase. In front of the fugitives comes Colonel Rhodes and Mr. Stark. The group stops, looking around, exhausted and trapped.

“It’s over, Rodgers. Turn yourselves in.”

The Captain shakes his head, “You don’t understand, there are super soldiers out there. Half a dozen Hydra assassins that are a threat to eve-”

Mr. Stark cuts him off, “No, just shut up. You know that isn’t what this is about. If there’s a threat the Avengers will handle it, and you chose to run away. This is about him.” He nods at Barnes.

Rogers doesn’t respond.

Suddenly, Peter hears the tightening of a bowstring. He hears a yell coming from Hawkeye, and looks up to see the man in the rafters just as he’s releasing an arrow, “Run, Cap! Nat's starting the jet!”

The weapon comes soaring down and Peter sends out an arm, hoping to get the Captain webbed down before chaos breaks loose. But then the arrow hits the floor with a boom, sending out a bright, white flash across the whole room. Peter shields his eyes, ducking down and wobbling on his feet. He hears shouting and his fingers curl in, pulling the trigger.

Webbing rushes from his wrist and connects with someone. Peter pulls them toward him blindly. When the light fades away he looks to the man at his feet, covered in webbing.

The man glares up at the vigilante with anger in his eyes. Peter wants to run. He reeled in the Winter Soldier, out of all the fugitives he could’ve webbed up he grabs the scariest.

'_Typical Parker luck._'

A tense moment passes and then Barnes is shooting up, dagger in hand and ready to strike. His senses yell at him to move and Peter listens, dodging out of the way. The soldier is about to lunge again when an inhuman growl rips through the air. It gets closer and closer, and suddenly the black cat is pouncing on the assassin.

The two go down in a blur and immediately start fighting. Peter sees a lot of hits in places that can kill. The cat man knocks Barnes into the wall with a powerful kick and he crashes into it with a loud thump, slumping to the ground in a daze - most likely with a concussion.

That should be the end of it but Peter sees the cat man stalking towards his prey like an animal. He growls under his breath, his claws coming out with a dangerous glint. Peter looks around wildly, searching for anyone to stop this. But no one is in the terminal as everyone has gone out to fight.

‘_When the bad things happen, that’s on you._’

So Peter raises his shooters one last time for the day and aims at the cat man. He lets out a string of webbing, pulling it back in a rush just as Barnes is about to be killed. Peter drags him across the floor, hurling him to the opposite side of the room and webbing him down tightly.

Peter does the same to the Winter Soldier.

He turns back to see the cat man violently struggling against his trap, but it holds firm.

“No! Let me out now!” The man screams, wild. Peter flinches.

“No.” Peter whispers, “You’ll kill him.”

He swivels his head towards him with so much venom in his voice that it chills Peter to the bone, “His crimes warrant death a thousand times over.”

“Mr. Stark never said anything about killing anybody.” He persists, desperation begins clawing at his chest, leaking into his voice. That wasn't part of the deal. Peter wraps his arms around himself, unsure and nervous.

“I do not work for Stark.”

Peter shakes his head, confused, “Why do you want Barnes dead? He’s down, injured, exhausted. After this he’s supposed to face a trial and go to… prison. That won’t happen if he's killed.”

“He does not deserve mercy.”

Peter freezes. He recognizes those words, they're filled with pain and anger, they're personal. And they've come out of Peter's own mouth before. Those words trigger a revelation.

Mr. Stark had told him about the UN bombing, how several world leaders were dead, leaving many countries and their people demanding justice. He had told him that in Bucharest a man was chasing down Barnes along with the Captain. And his whole time it was only Barnes that the black cat was aiming to really hurt, he was targeting him and him alone.

A rush of sympathy swells into Peter as he connects the dots. For a while he doesn’t speak, until he finally lets out a soft question, “He killed someone you loved? Didn’t he? Now you’re trying to take revenge.”

The black cat stops struggling for a moment, he stares at Peter before training his gaze on Barnes. For a minute no one speaks, the fighting had long since gone far away from the airport, leaving the terminal awfully quiet.

“Yes, my father.” The man tries again to break free, yet finds no luck. Past the anger in his words Peter recognizes the broken tone, “He killed him, so it falls on me to avenge his death.”

Peter walks over to the man as if he were an injured animal. He slides down the wall until he's sitting a couple feet from the man. Looking around, the teen finds no one listening but the black cat. With a sigh he gets ready to open an old, emotional wound that had barely closed in the first place. When he does, words spill out that Peter didn’t know he had, “My Uncle, who raised me as his son, was killed too. H-He died… right in my arms.” Peter swallows back a choke, determined to get his story out. Maybe saying it to someone out loud would help him as much as it would help the other man, “I went after the killer and let him drop to his death.”

They sit in silence for a few seconds before he looks straight at the man in black, “It did not make any difference. I still felt angry and sad. And worst of all, I know my Uncle wouldn’t have wanted me to do that.”

The man doesn’t speak, nor does he turn away from Barnes. But he doesn’t keep struggling and Peter counts that as a win. They both sit on that floor, quiet for a long time as Peter waits for something to happen. With his injury, and the battle already far away, he knows that his part of the fight is over. So he stays down and watches the other two in the room.

==========

Maybe an hour or two later Mr. Hogan steps into the terminal with a crew of _men dressed in black_. Peter instantly tenses and watches them warily. A part of him wants to jump away and run, but that probably won’t go over well with Mr. Stark. Besides, they’re tracking him so it’s not like he’ll get very far.

Mr. Hogan looks from Barnes, to the cat man, and then at Peter. He raises an eyebrow and the teen shrugs, “They were trying to kill each other.”

“Alright, can you at least get them out?” Happy says.

Peter nods and goes to Barnes first, he feels the gazes of the agents and notices their guns trained on the Winter Soldier. With a little Spidey warning in his mind he realizes that a few weapons are also trained on him. He swallows nervously as he rips at the webbing, which has already disintegrated a bit.

An agent comes forward and pulls Barnes up, latching handcuffs onto him.

Next, Peter frees the cat man. He looks at the receding back of Barnes, and Peter worries that he’ll make a run for him. But he simply nods at the teen before turning to Mr. Hogan.

“What happened of the fight?” cat man asks, once more composed.

Peter perks up, also a bit curious.

Mr. Hogan lets out a gruff sigh, “Captain Rogers got away on the Quinjet. The rest of them have been apprehended.”

After a moment Peter speaks up, “What now?”

“They’ll all be interrogated. Tony will go after Rodgers. You’ll be sent back to the…” He trails off for a split second before continuing, “We’ll have you checked by medics then take you home.”

Peter nods solemnly, feeling as if he’s been dunked into cold water. The adventure - the _freedom_ \- had to end some time, right? It had only been a night and a day, yet he felt like his life at The Center was years ago.

“Let’s go… Didn’t you have a jacket with you earlier?” Mr. Hogan asks.

Peter cringes a little, “It blew up."

Mr. Hogan shoots him a look that Peter doesn't meet. Then the bodyguard looks away and picks up the pace with a frustrated sigh. The teen doesn't say anything more.

They walk out onto the tarmac and into a waiting car. Mr. Hogan takes off the tracker, but it doesn’t make the teen feel any better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Two chapters in a week? What is this? Good time management?
> 
> Again, I'm not amazing at fight scenes but your nice words make me feel a whole lot more confident! Thanks!
> 
> HAPPY HOLIDAYS!


	8. Secret Santa: Convict Edition

If unable to view: https://www.deviantart.com/1potatoqueen1/art/Christmas-Comic-TL-824775645?ga_submit_new=10%3A1577389777 

The obligatory Holiday Special I convinced myself to do instead of sleeping! It's nice to sprinkle a little bit of holiday cheer and happiness in between the angst. May or may not be canonical lol.

Art is done by me.


	9. Out of Options

Turns out that a large scale battle between the Avengers is a big deal. Traffic was blocked up from the airport and out for miles.

Mr. Hogan, who was driving up front, grumbles under his breath.

Peter looks out the window and at the sun setting over the city of Leipzig. Occasionally a horn will honk, the cops diverting traffic seem tired, and people are restless. Mr. Hogan plays no music and the ride is quiet and awkward.

For another hour the car barely moves and eventually Mr. Hogan looks up to his mirror and at Peter. He sighs as he takes off his black blazer, tossing it into the back, “Put this on, you’re suit is showing from under your clothes.”

A little confused, Peter follows the order. He slides on the clothing, which looks huge on his scrawny figure. It definitely hides the suit. Mr. Hogan nods in satisfaction as he continues creeping along the road. Eventually he's able to pull into the closest parking lot, stopping the engine and taking the key from the ignition, "Get out, we're walking to the hotel."

Peter nods, “Yes, sir.”

They both step out of the car and Peter holds the blazer close to him for warmth. It's even colder in Germany this time of year than it is in New York. The sun has set for the day, leaving only the chilling temperatures. His breath fogs in front of him and he shivers.

“Hurry up, it’s cold and we needed to be at the hotel an hour ago.” Mr. Hogan says as he sets his pace. Peter nods and catches up to him.

They jog in silence for several minutes. Happy Hogan is the one guiding them, taking the two through relatively crowded paths and well lit streets. For his size, Peter notices that the bodyguard is well fit. What most people see as fat must really be muscle because the guy doesn’t once slow down during their run. Mr. Hogan often glances at Peter from time to time, ensuring that the teen is still by his side.

For Peter’s part, he stays close to the man, careful to always remain in his line of sight. They weave through the crowds for three miles and Peter tries to ignore the burning in his right leg, which was still healing. He pushes through the pain and stays steady. After those three miles the foot traffic begins to thin a little. After another few minutes of running Peter notices that the people are more sparse and the sky has gone dark.

They take a couple turns, and Peter sees the hotel in sight when something makes him pause. It's a sound that's undeniable and he recognizes it instantly.

With a small, barely noticeable click, he knows that a gun has been readied, the safety turning off with a mechanical snap.

Instantly he freezes, his blood going cold. He searches the area, feeling for that electric tingle that courses through his spine at the first sign of danger. But there's nothing, no people nearby and no warning from his Spidey sense. The dark roads are deserted, the rooftops empty, there's no one.

Just as Peter is about to dismiss the sound as his imagination, he hears voices whispering from somewhere he cannot see. The words are barely audible, but Peter hears it anyways.

“Kid? What are you doing?” Mr. Hogan asks beside him. He takes a step towards Peter, watching him cautiously.

Peter doesn’t respond for a second as he focuses on the words. They’re coming from down an alleyway, maybe just around a bend or two. They’re German, that’s for sure. He doesn’t know German, but he can tell that whatever is going on, it’s not good.

A man speaks, his voice hushed but harsh. Peter quickly realizes that he’s the one carrying the gun.

“Nein, bitte nein.” A woman begs, she whimpers. The world around him seems to slip from Peter’s mind as he hears her voice. It’s full of fear.

There’s an attacker and a victim. In his mind’s eye, he’s witnessing the scene. And although he can’t really see it, he gets the gist. He can picture the woman's face and the man with his gun, pointed at her in the shadows. He can imagine the way her face trembles and how she must be backed into a corner. But then the teen’s imagination runs ahead, picturing splattered blood and a body left to freeze in the cold. Suddenly, he’s filled with the immense desire to _move _and to stop his fears from ever happening.

Before he knows it, Peter is taking a step to the alley, but is roughly tugged back by Mr. Hogan. “What are you doing!?” he demands. Peter flinches.

He hears another threat from the attacker. Peter looks back at Happy, desperate, “Someone is in trouble, please, we have to help them.”

The bodyguard looks into the dimly lit alley, searching, “I don’t see anyone.”

“Hilfe! Hilfe!” The woman screams out, but only Peter can hear her.

He snatches his arm out of the man’s grasp and points, “I can hear it, it’s coming that way.” And he hopes, with everything in him, that Mr. Hogan will let him be the hero for the little guy, just this once.

“Kid, that’s not your business. We’ll call the cops, but you need to come with me.” There’s a warning tone in Mr. Hogan’s voice, and Peter’s heart sinks, weighing in his stomach and making him sick.

“Ok.” Peter quietly lets out as he forces himself to turn away from the voices and from the woman. Mr. Hogan grabs his arm again and doesn’t let go.

He hears the woman pleading in words he doesn’t know but understands anyways. The two take a few steps in the opposite direction, and Peter is tempted to beg the bodyguard to let him save her. Hearing her crying in the night makes him tense, his whole body aching to run and find her. But just like the boy who fell to his death at The Center, just like the fight between Rodriguez and Aaron, Peter knows that he can’t do anything. He has no choice but to follow orders now.

But then he hears screaming and he picks up on the shuffling of feet and the gasping of breath. A scuffle between the two starts as the woman tries to get free.

Peter hears the click of a trigger. He smells the gunpowder ignite.

BANG!

The sound echoes through the streets, loud and clear. Peter stops dead in his tracks, staring back at the alley. He hears a thud, then the sound of heavy footsteps pounding away. Beside him, Mr. Hogan has stopped, his face pale as he looks from the alley to Peter and then back.

“Peter? Was that…?”

The world fades around him as his mind goes fuzzy, but it snaps back into focus just as quickly as he forces himself to concentrate on his senses. The teen almost collapses in relief when he picks up a faint heartbeat coming from the alley. A metallic scent spreads through the air though, and Peter chokes on it.

“S-She’s alive… But she’s slipping.” He whispers.

Mr. Hogan jumps into action. The man pulls out a phone, tapping its screen and putting it to his ear. To Peter’s surprise Mr. Hogan begins speaking German, although it’s choppy and every now and then he has to pause to remember a word. He looks up at some street signs and recites them. Finally, he puts down his phone and looks at Peter, “I’ve called the police, we’ll stay here until they get here. You make sure that the victim is okay.”

So Peter keeps his ears trained on the woman in the alley, ready to go to her if any more trouble comes. But none does and it isn’t long before sirens start calling out in the dark. Their red and blue lights wash over the street and Peter watches them with wary eyes. Cops aren’t exactly in his good book. They hated Spiderman and were a threat to Peter Parker for months.

The cops pull to the side of the road and Mr. Hogan gestures for them to come to him. He speaks to them in German and starts pointing down the alley. Seconds later an ambulance arrives and out pours two emergency workers with a stretcher.

Peter just stands there in silence the whole time. His heart beats quickly and his throat clogs up. His eyes bounce back and forth from the alley to the ground. The teen curls in on himself a little, allowing his body to be drowned in Mr. Hogan’s big blazer.

The officer and Mr. Hogan exchange a few more words, which Peter doesn’t pay attention to, he’s still focused on the woman in the alley. The two men finish talking and from then on it’s not their problem.

“We’re leaving now.” Mr. Hogan says.

Peter numbly follows. In all honesty, he doesn’t know how to feel. His whole chest aches but there’s at least a little relief. He didn’t do anything to help her, he let her get shot. She could have been killed. But she’s alive and that’s something to be thankful for.

_‘You could have saved her…_’ that voice in his head whispers.

Feebly, Peter argues that there is no way he ever could have. Not without breaking the fragile trust he has with Mr. Stark and Mr. Hogan.

Peter knows that he can’t mess this up. For the first time in a long time he’s got a shot at something greater. Life has been downhill for so long and this may be his only shot at redemption. So it’s either follow every order to a T or go back to The Center. There’s no second chances, this is it.

All people see in him is a thug, a street rat that could never amount to anything. As Peter walks to the hotel, with his eyes turned to the ground, he lets his thoughts drift to a bitter topic he’s been trying to avoid.

‘_If I mess this up, then… then what’s left for me? No one wants to give high-risk kids a chance. And without a second chance… I’ll be leaving this world having done more harm than good._’

The name _Parker_ would be forgotten, or even tainted. And Peter refuses to let that happen.

==========

A medic is waiting at the hotel once they get up to his room. As the two enter Mr. Hogan says, “Your identity is classified, even to the doctor. Keep it that way.”

Peter nods as he steps into the suite, making a mental note to not let anything slip that could give away who he is.

An Asian woman dressed in white scrubs gets up from her spot on the couch at the sound of the door clicking open, “Hello, I am Doctor Helen Cho…” She trails off as her eyes land on Peter. The room is silent for a moment.

“This is him?” She finally asks Mr. Hogan, uncertain.

“Yup.” He answers.

“I must admit, I did not expect him to be so young.” she says, surprise coloring her voice.

Peter doesn’t pay attention to this as he looks at the woman. Her name instantly rings a bell in Peter’s memory and it dawns on him that he’s standing in the same room as the Helen Cho, a world renowned geneticists and arguably the best in her field. He has read dozens of her papers, not only as he researched his own mutation, but simply out of a desire to learn. Dumbstruck Peter just stares before turning his eyes to the ground. It’s kind of depressing to be meeting her as a convict and not as a fellow scientist. At least she doesn't know that.

“Let's get to business then.” Helen says, “Mr. Hogan, you can sit down anywhere if you’d like. You're required to be in here, correct?” The man nods as he walks to a seat in the corner, watching Peter from a distance.

“And you,” She gestures to Peter, “have to strip down so I can get a look at your injuries.”

Peter would be embarrassed if he were focused, but his mind is still stuck on the fact that he’s going to be treated by one of his biggest heroes.

Dr. Cho hands him a medical blanket and Peter goes into the bathroom. He quickly strips off Mr. Hogan’s jacket - folding it up neatly and putting it on the counter - then takes off his shirt, jeans, and suit until he’s left in only his boxers. He wraps the medical blanket around his waist then heads back into the suite.

Dr. Cho pulls out a mat and a towel and places both on a coffee table, “I’m not used to working in these conditions. I normally have a lab at my disposal so excuse me for the informality. You will have to lie down on the table.” She lets out a nervous chuckle.

Peter settles down on the towel, his legs just hanging over the edge. The doctor looks over him, inspecting his body for any trauma. She takes notice of a few nasty bruises but stops when she sees the webbing on his leg, which has been deteriorating over the past few hours. It’s gone dark pink from the blood.

“What’s this?” She asks, surprised.

“Webbing. I used it to patch up a cut.”

“Would removing it injure you further?” Her question is both curious and concerned.

Peter nods, “I can take it off, but it’ll rip at the skin.”

Dr. Cho nods, “Will cutting it work?”

“Yes.”

The doctor pulls out a large medical kit and opens it up, “I will have to medicate you before I do anything. You’re genetically enhanced, so I’ll be administering special pain relievers little by little to make sure I don’t give you too much.” she says.

She prepares a syringe and injects it into him, Peter doesn’t flinch as the needle pierces his skin. They wait a few minutes until Doctor Cho asks, “Are you feeling any numbness.”

“No.” Peter knows it’ll take a lot more than that to have any affect. His leg still burns from the cut and his body still aches from having been thrown around so much.

Dr. Cho and Peter repeat the process at least a dozen times until Peter finally feels his pain fade away. When he tells the doctor this she gets out a scalpel and moves it to the webbing. With a few experienced movements she’s freed his leg from it’s wrapping and is taking in the cut.

“This looks pretty bad.” She says, “It will need stitches.”

Suddenly, Peter hears Mr. Hogan get up from his spot and walk over to them. The man looks down at him and at his wound and frowns, “You were running on that?”

“It’s okay.” Peter is quick to shoot back.

Mr. Hogan lets out a long suffering sigh, “Well, will it be healed by the time we get you back home, without stitches?” he asks Peter.

He shakes his head, “No, my healing factor can’t do that right now. It needs more nutrition than I can get, so it’s slower than it should be.”

Mr. Hogan turns to Dr. Cho and they both share a look. Then the man says, “Do what you have to, Mr. Stark will pay the bill.”

“I never doubted that.” She replies.

After that, Dr. Cho gets to work, sterilizing the wound and stitching it up. Despite the medication he feels the needle piercing through his skin and the texture of the thread being pulled through his flesh. He hears the sound of each stitch being tied off with a _snick_ and smells the blood and chemicals wafting through the air. Halfway through the process his leg begins tingling and soon gets hot. The pinpricks of the needle begin to hurt, and when the pull of the thread starts to feel like it’s burning him, Peter tells her to stop.

“The numbness is fading.” He says as he tries to ignore the throbbing in his leg.

“Already? Is it completely gone?” The doctor asks.

“Yes.”

She bites her lip for a second, thinking, “You’re metabolism is higher than I thought. I don’t have enough pain killers, that last dosage took nearly all of them. Mr. Hogan, do you have any extra supplies?”

“Does tylenol work? I’m guessing not.” Mr. Hogan says, jaded.

Peter quashes the desire to let out a sarcastic quip, which is helped by the fact that his leg still has a gaping wound in it. ‘_Bingo, Mr. Hogan. Tylenol, in fact, doesn’t work on mutated spider teenagers! Incredible that they don’t cater to my demographic! Am I entitled to compensation for this?_’

Dr. Cho’s voice pulls him from his internal rant.

“I’ll have to stop stitching you up, but leaving you like this is dangerous. The whole wound could reopen if you put even a little strain on it.” She warns, “You’d have to be put in a wheelchair to avoid that until the rest of the cut is stitched up or you heal naturally.”

Peter shakes his head. No way was he being pushed around in a wheelchair at The Center, “Just keep going, you’re already halfway done.”

“But I have no more sedatives.” Dr. Cho protests.

“Just do it, please.” He begs.

“I don’t think you understand, it will hurt _a lot_.”

“I know.” Peter internally winces as he remembers all the times he’s had to stitched himself up before without an ounce of pain medication. His metabolic rate is simply too high for the average pain killer. A whole box of Advil would do nothing and the painkillers at the hospital barely dulled him. It’s a bit disappointing that professional, superhuman medication isn’t much better.

Dr. Cho looks at Mr. Hogan for confirmation. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the bodyguard nod, “We don’t have enough time to get him to a specialized doctor who can treat him. He needs to be on a plane and back home by tomorrow. Unless you would be willing to come back to the US to help there?”

“No, I have to be back in Seoul this weekend.”

“Then do it.” Mr. Hogan says without a hint of doubt in his voice.

Dr. Cho looks back at Peter, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

‘_Oh no, absolutely not. I’d really rather not, actually._’

Instead of staying that, he simply reassures her, “I’ll be fine.”

Dr. Cho takes a little breather, maybe even more reluctant to do this than Peter is. Then she picks up the needle and starts.

It pierces through his skin and Peter grits his teeth. Just because he’s more durable than the average person, doesn’t mean he experiences any less pain. But he keeps quiet through the whole process. He tenses with each pull of the thread, his fingers curl tightly in on themselves, and his breathing is a little harsh, but other than that there is no sign of discomfort. It hurts, it really does, but there’s really not much that can get Peter to scream.

It takes a while for Dr. Cho to finish, but once she does, Peter breathes out a sigh of relief.

Doctor Cho relaxes beside him, closing her eyes for a minute to collect herself. With a slightly hysterical laugh she says, “You Avengers sometimes scare me. Stitching you up with no medicine? My doctorate would be revoked if you were anyone else…”

Peter’s heart leaps at the word _Avenger_. Of course he isn’t one, and he would protest that he’s not, but that wouldn’t exactly calm the doctor’s nerves.

She places down the bloody needle, washes any remaining blood off, and then wraps his leg with a thick layer of bandages.

“You’ll have to stay off that for a few days. I don’t know how quickly your cells regenerate tissue but be sure to get plenty rest and food. The stitches will dissolve on their own within two weeks.”

Despite his protests, Dr. Cho and Mr. Hogan help him off the table and to the bathroom. He carefully tugs back on his civilian clothes and steps back out to return the suit and Mr. Hogan’s jacket. They then walk him to his room, where he settles on the bed with more than a little delight. It was still _so soft_.

Dr. Cho looks at the clock on the wall and when she sees the time - 1:32 - she slumps in exhaustion. “I should go now, my airplane leaves tomorrow and I would like to sleep before then. Annyeonghi jumuseyo.”

“Good night and have a safe flight, Dr. Cho.” Mr. Hogan says.

With that said, the doctor leaves. Peter wishes he could have said something to her, maybe complimented her work. But he’s beyond tired at this point and just ready to sleep. Anyways, he doubts she would’ve been up to a scientific discussion so late.

Mr. Hogan groans, running a hand down his face. Finally, he places a hand in his pocket and takes out the tracker, “You have to wear it for the night.”

Peter extends his leg out, resigned to having that uncomfortable thing locked onto him for the next few hours. He looks away as Mr. Hogan snaps it onto his good leg. It beeps and the light shifts from red to green.

The man turns around and leaves the room without a word. He turns off the light and slams the door in his wake, leaving the teen alone with himself.

That night, Peter dreams of screaming and finds himself alone with no one to help. When he looks down at his hands, they’re covered in red.

==========

The flight back to New York is quiet. Mr. Hogan and Peter are the only ones on the private jet seeing as the Colonel, Vision, and Mr. Stark had all left earlier to either chase after the Captain or to deal with the fugitives. Peter’s Spiderman suit has been locked up in the back, and maybe he’s a little glad for that.

The past few days have been incredible but his mind feels a little fried. The change from constant routine to a full scale battle with the Avengers is a lot to take in. So he’s left feeling dizzy just thinking about it, the idea is kind of too absurd to believe. One day he’s in a cell, the next he’s in Germany, and the next he’s back where he started.

Every few minutes Peter will catch Mr. Hogan looking at him. However, every time he glances over the man turns away.

Eventually Peter manages to fall asleep during the seven hour flight. It’s a restless nap and doesn’t do much more than pass the time, but when he wakes up they’re only an hour off the coast of the United States.

After a few more minutes of silence Mr. Hogan taps him on the shoulder, bringing his attention to him. For a moment no words are shared. In fact, the man looks very uncomfortable but he finally speaks up, “I called the Leipzig police while you were asleep. The woman who got shot is okay. I thought you should know.”

Peter takes a moment to absorb this. For the first time in hours he feels his body relax and he lets out a breath of relief. It feels like a small weight has been lifted off his shoulders. “Thank you.” He says.

The silence between the two becomes a little easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Sorry if it's a little late, I've got semester exams coming up. Anyways, next chapter is gonna be another backstory, so that's gonna be pretty fun! Another step closer to figuring out what exactly happened to our favorite Spidey boi.


	10. The Lone Boy

**10 Months Ago (Jan 3)**

The bell rings at Midtown High as Peter settles into his seat. It’s the first period of the day, Biology, and the teacher’s face morphs into surprise as she sees him.

“Oh, Peter! It’s nice to have you back!”

She smiles at him, although it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. The teen recognizes the look on her face. He saw it a lot after Ben passed away.

He forces a smile and nods, “Yup, I’m back.”

Some classmates greet him, others ask how he is. He tells them he’s fine and then the lesson starts. No one asks what happened.

It’s a little stressful getting back to Midtown after everything. Although most of his time in the hospital was spent during Winter Break, he’d still been out for five days of school, which is a lot to miss with the fast pace classes.

So Peter has _lots_ of make up work to do to catch up, and the day drags on as the teen tries to get back on top of his studies. It doesn't help that his classmates are whispering around him. He catches small bits of conversation throughout the day, they're mostly rumors and a lot of pity. But after four stressful hours and two classes of this, the bell finally rings to dismiss students to lunch.

Peter sighs as he grabs his bag and his stack of worksheets and heads out the door. He shoves some of his textbooks into his locker, then starts down to the cafeteria. It doesn't escape the teen’s notice that the students in the hall are looking at him, their eyes examining him with curiosity. But every time he tries to meet their gaze they look away.

He huffs and keeps his eyes straight ahead, trying to keep his face neutral as he makes his way to the cafeteria. Relief settles his unease when he gets to the lunch room, which is so busy with people that no one even notices when he enters. Peter grabs a tray of lunch and heads to his normal table. He settles down, and with a pencil in hand he starts working on a biology assignment, taking small bites from his food every couple minutes.

In front of him someone sets down their tray of food, “Hey Peter!” They say cheerfully.

Peter feels his spirits lift as he looks up and sees his best friend, “Hi Ned, how are you?”

Ned shakes his head, a grin on his face, “How am I? I should be asking you that!” He sits down and his expression becomes a little more sober, “You’ve been gone a while.”

“Yeah, being gone so long must’ve been tough. Flash must’ve been aimless with no one to mess with.” Peter jokes. Although his tone is light, he feels his smile become just a little strained.

Suddenly, his Spidey sense lets out a tiny warning and Peter forces himself to ignore it. A little warning like that couldn't be real danger, and if he was able to dodge every little thing in his life people would probably get suspicious. Or, in Flash’s case, make it a challenge to hit him.

With a final whisper of his Spidey Sense, a hand smacks the back of his head lightly. Peter looks back, indignant, but his annoyance fades as soon as he sees who it is. Behind him is his other friend, MJ.

“What was that for?” Peter asks. He bats away her hand, careful to not put any actual strength behind it.

She gives him a stubborn look as she takes a seat next to him. But even though her expression is stern Peter can see the way her eyes flicker with hidden concern. He sees the way her face is just a slightly more open than it normally is, and how her voice lacks its usual bite.

“You know what that was for. You’re avoiding the question, Peter. How are you?” MJ asks.

His response is immediate and without any actual thought. It’s purely reflex. “I’m good, honestly!”

The words sound fake, even to him.

Her left eyebrow slightly raises, her mouth set into a line. Peter feels his heart become heavier as he slouches under her gaze. It only takes a few seconds of her staring for him to crack.

He looks down, letting a sigh escape him.

For a beat, no one talks and it seems as if the whole cafeteria has faded away. Peter takes this moment to search his memories, trying to figure them out for the hundredth time. There was a crash, he was in the hospital, May is stable but not with him, his body was healing too fast and that’s dangerous, and he’s living with a stranger.

Despite all these big changes, here he is, back at school as if nothing ever happened. The only thing different right now is that Peter has a new backpack, which Mr. Westcott had given to him that morning. Apparently his social worker is going to take him home tomorrow to grab some belongings, but until then the only things he has is what Mr. Westcott gives him.

But, things could be worse, right?

“Are you okay?” Ned asks.

When Peter looks up he sees his friends with worry etched onto their faces. He bites his lip in thought, trying to find a way to put his feelings into words.

He starts off slowly, wanting to find the right way to explain himself to Ned and MJ. They watch him patiently.

Finally, he starts speaking, keeping his voice quiet so no one hears but them, “Well… I guess. I think I’m okay. Like, life isn’t great right now, but it’s not terrible. I’m healthy, and…. And the guy who I’m staying with right now - Mr. Westcott - he seems okay. His house is really nice and he even gave me a bookbag.”

Peter pauses for a a second, then looks at them with faint smile which is more for himself than for Ned and MJ, “This shouldn’t last too long anyways, all the doctors say that Aunt May is healing just fine.”

Ned’s worried expression relaxes and becomes a bright smile, “That’s really good, actually!”

MJ agrees placidly, “It is.”

“Yup!”

The trio goes peacefully silent for a little bit before Peter remembers what he’s doing. With a start he grabs his pencil, glancing at his thick stack of papers before looking back to his friends, “I’ve got so much classwork to make up now, though. It’s going to take me forever! I feel like I’ve missed so much, and I don’t even want to think about what Mr. Thompson is going to give me for robotics class.”

“Woah, wait a minute! That reminds me…” Ned pipes up, an excited look on his face, “You remember the Stark Expo Junior Showcase? The one we’ve all been building a drone for in robotics class?”

Peter’s eyes widen, “I _completely_ forgot all about that.” He vaguely remembers telling Aunt May about it when they were eating out, before the car crash happened.

“Well, as soon as you get all that late work done we’ll have to start reworking the entire plan. You see, I was watching the news when I saw clips of that new vigilante, Spiderman-”

Peter almost leaps out of his skin at the mention of his secret identity. But Ned couldn’t possibly know. No one could ever connect the friendly neighborhood vigilante with him, Peter Benjamin Parker.

Ned doesn’t notice his mood change and keeps talking animatedly, “-that guy has this crazy webbing that’s able to take on so much pressure. From what I can tell it’s as strong as steel, maybe even more! It’s the coolest!”

MJ looks from Ned to Peter, “Are you two about to nerd out?” She asks.

Peter shakes away his nervousness and feels a grin, a real one, slip onto his face. Some hidden happiness finds its way into him at the familiar banter between the three.

“Absolutely, and you’re invited to nerd out with us!” Peter says.

MJ gives them one of her rare smiles, “Ok, I can do that.”

Ned jumps into his explanation, “So, I was thinking. What if we were able to incorporate Spidey’s webbing into our own drone? Like, if it’s so strong - strong enough to hold up literal tons - then it could do so much! We could use the drone for rescue purposes. So if a building or bridge is damaged during a supervillain attack or natural disaster these drones could be used to safely repair them long enough to evacuate people.”

MJ nods along, “A drone like this would have saved a lot of lives during the Battle of New York.”

All three teens remember that day. Nearly everyone in the school had either seen the Chitauri invasion in person or knew someone who had. A lot of them knew family or friends who hadn’t made it out alive. MJ and Ned were not an exception to this.

In that moment it feels as if Peter’s mind is opening to a thousand new possibilities. He feels like kicking himself for not thinking about something like this sooner. His webbing really could do so much more, couldn’t it? It could save so many people. Spiderman is only one person, so he can only do so much, but the capabilities of a drone like this would be incredible! It could do things he can’t and save more people than he could ever fit in a single patrol. And with his friends by his side they would be able to make it into a reality.

A strong wave of determination takes the teen by storm, “This could really do some serious good! Have you drawn out the blueprints?”

“I’ve got them right here…” MJ pulls her sketchbook from her bag and lays it onto the lunch table, flipping through the pages until she gets to the plans. All across the paper is immaculate and detailed drawings of the drone with a section dedicated to the webbing mechanics.

Peter touches the plan almost reverently, awe bubbling up inside of him, “You guys have really been working hard on this while I’ve been gone.”

Ned grabs his own notebook, flipping to a page and showing it to Peter. The entire thing is filled with messy formulas and notes, all of them have been marked with a red X. Ned looks at Peter with the kind of eagerness that can only come when a bunch of science geeks are on the verge of a breakthrough.

“We’ve been trying to figure out the formula for the webs. But me and MJ can’t crack it. You’re the chemistry guy, Peter, so it’s up to you!”

Through his excitement, Peter can’t help but feel wary. This situation is definitely one he needs to treat carefully.

However, his eyes quickly run over the page anyways, taking in every last letter. The elements are jumbled, a few are missing, and the steps are listed out of order. But his friends have made a good attempt at recreating the web fluid.

“So, can you do it?” MJ asks, a challenge in her voice and a spark in her eye.

Peter swallows nervously, his lip wearing under his teeth. A small part of him is tempted to say no and feign ignorance. Connecting any part of Spiderman with himself is a possible threat to his identity and, by extension, his Aunt and his friends. But the much bigger and much louder part of his conscience screams at him to say _yes_. He can almost picture Uncle Ben in his head, telling him the words he'll remember for the rest of his life. His resolve hardens.

“Of course I can.” Peter says.

‘_It would be suspicious if I got it perfectly the first time, though._’

For a split second he wracks his brain for an excuse, a kind of cover story for why he would be getting such a complex formula correct. Then it comes to him, “B-But I’ll need to get a sample of the webs so I can reverse engineer it! It’d be kinda impossible to figure it out from scratch, y’know?”

“Yeah, but how would we even get our hands on that?” Ned asks.

“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” MJ says.

Peter looks at her in surprise, “It is?”

She gives them both a deadpan look, “Queens is Spiderman’s territory and we live in Queens. So all we need to do is check out the area at night. He’ll show up at some point and we’ll follow him until he uses his webs. Then we grab our sample when he leaves. Easy.”

Well, that might just be a problem for Peter. Spiderman can’t exactly show up if he’s busy patrolling with his friends. He’ll have to figure out a way around it…

“That’s actually really cool!” Ned pipes up, “Can you imagine running into Spiderman!? I’d like his autograph, so when he’s a famous Avenger I can show everyone that I got to meet him.”

MJ snorts, “Don’t be ridiculous. Spiderman isn’t going to join the Avengers. Those superheroes are always just a legislature away from being turned into government puppets. That’s not what our neighborhood vigilante wants.”

Ned, understandably, looks scandalized, “Oh come on! Don’t shoot down my dreams, MJ.”

Peter stifles a laugh at Ned’s puppy dog eyes. His friend really worships heroes, maybe even more than Peter does.

MJ ignores Ned and focuses on Peter, “Well, what do you think about Spiderman? Think he could become an Avenger?”

Peter looks down as he feels heat creep up his neck and onto his face. The teen tries to go for a nonchalant tone, “He’s okay, I guess. But I don’t know if he’d want to join the Avengers or not.” Of course, that’s a lie. He would absolutely join Earth’s Mightiest Heroes if given a chance. But he isn’t completely stupid, and the logical part of his brain knows that his abilities aren’t good enough.

‘_Not yet at least… But I could totally get strong enough to join the Avengers one day! How would you even be able to join the Avengers, anyways? I doubt that they use linkdn._’

“Peter, are you even listening to us?” MJ asks, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Peter looks at her and realizes with a little embarrassment that he had zoned out, “Sorry. What were you guys saying?”

“Do you need help on your homework? If we help out you’ll be finished faster.”

Peter nods his head, grateful, “Yeah, that’d be great! I could use the help.”

“I’ve got my biology and robotics notes, I’ll text you them.” Ned offers.

“Tell me if you have any problems with English. We’ve been studying Julius Caesar. The protagonist, Brutus, is a good case study on manipulation.”

Peter tilts his head in thought, trying to remember what he knew about the play from when May and Ben had taken him to see Shakespeare In The Park, “Isn’t he the one who becomes a villain?”

“More or less. But I wouldn’t say he’s a _villain_. Or maybe he is. But personally, I think Brutus is something else entirely.” MJ says.

“Well that explanation wasn’t vague at all.” Peter doubts that MJ would actually tell him anything concrete about the book. She never spoils anything, even if that book happens to be hundreds of years old already.

Ned shakes his head, “I know right? Every time I try to get her to explain the book she just ends up making me more confused. The only thing I’ve figured out is that Antony is a sarcastic queen.”

Beside him he sees MJ's face break into a grin. And then she starts to laugh - _actually laugh_ \- which is rare for her.

When Peter had first heard _Michelle Jones_ laugh it hadn’t been what he expected. He had thought her laughter would be like how she acted, reserved and suppressed. But when he first heard her laugh he knew that it was the real her, it was _MJ_.

Her laughter is loud and confident with a dignity you can’t find anywhere else.

Ned smirks, “Woah, check it out Peter, she’s actually openly expressing happiness!”

“Incredible…”

MJ stifles her laughter and swats him in the head, then lightly smacks Ned, “Don't go around telling people that I actually have emotions. Now c’mon, let’s focus on Peter’s work. The sooner we get this done the sooner we can start on the drone.”

Peter has missed his friends. He has missed the warm feeling he gets in his chest when he’s around them, and the way they play off each other so easily. So for the rest of the lunch he just enjoys talking and joking with them. And for that one moment the worry of the last few days and all the pitying stares don’t bother him that much.

==========

The winter air was cold that day, and it wasn’t helped by the light drizzle, which would soon become flurries of snow. Peter huddles in on himself and pulls up his hood as he heads outside.

It only takes a few minutes for a nice car to pull into the school parking lot. It's a relatively new one, with no dents or scuffs anywhere. It runs fine, the engine purring steadily despite the cold. Nothing like his family’s old car. Although, Peter guesses that May would have to get another one once she was released from the hospital. There’s no way that little, sputtering car had survived the wreck.

Then the window rolls down and Mr. Westcott's face shows up. His expression morphs into a welcoming smile. "Hey Peter, it's me. Climb in."

Peter gives a nod and hurries to the car, ready to get in the back seat when Mr. Westcott speaks up, "Nah, get in the front, you're a big kid."

"Oh, okay." He opens the front door and settles into the passenger seat. Instantly, he melts under the warm heater.

"Cold out there, huh?" Mr. Westcott asks, trying to strike up a conversation as he drives out of the school parking lot. His words seem sympathetic.

"Yeah, its freezing. But the school is warm inside, so it’s not too bad."

"Speaking of school, how was your day? Did you learn anything interesting? I know that your school is basically for geniuses."

Peter rubs the back of his neck, sheepish, "Well, I wouldn't say I'm a genius. But we got to talk about Einstein's theory of Brownian Motion. So that was pretty cool."

Westcott glances over at him, "Einstein, huh? That’s some smart stuff."

A silence descends upon the two, making Peter a little uncomfortable. He’s never liked awkward silences, so it’s really no wonder that he’s constantly blabbering about one thing or another. Even as Spiderman he can’t help but talk. Somehow having a conversation with criminals who want to kill him is easier than having one with Mr. Westcott. At least when he’s Spiderman he has a mask to hide behind. But there’s nothing hiding his uncertainty from this man.

So he wracks his brain for something to say, and in true Peter Parker fashion decides to settle on the one thing that he can talk about for hours: science.

“Um… Yeah, Einstein was really incredible. Everyone knows his work on relativity, but his research actually had a big impact on other fields of science too. He pushed what we know about quantum chemistry to a new level. He was literally theorizing about the properties of elements on an atomic scale, which changed how people saw chemistry as a whole. That’s actually how Tony Stark was able to create Starkium, by breaking down what he wanted in an element down to each individual particle.”

Peter is about to launch into a rant on Tony Stark when he notices Mr. Westcott looking at him from the corner of his eye. There’s a twinge in the back of his mind, it’s a tiny feeling that settles into his chest and fades just as quickly. It’s not his Spidey sense, he’s certain about that. It’s something else that he can’t really identify. Peter isn’t sure what to make of it and after a while he dismisses the feeling.

When the man doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, he becomes self conscious and ducks his head, sheepish. “Sorry, I nerded out on you there, didn’t I?”

Mr. Westcott chuckles, “It’s fine with me, you’re a smart kid, and it’s okay to show it off. And I’ve got to say Peter, I think you’re going to be the next big genius.”

The praise leaves Peter more than a little abashed, but also happy. His shoulders lose their tension and he finds himself relaxing in his seat.

“Thanks.” He says.

“No problem, Peter.” Mr. Westcott reaches an arm off the steering wheel, giving Peter a quick pat on the shoulder.

The twinge at the back of his mind gets slightly louder.

==========

Mr. Westcott flips on the light switch, illuminating the hallway into the house and leading Peter into the living room. The house is quiet, clean, and average. Peter realizes that this is the first real look he’s gotten at the place. Until then everything had been going by in a daze, with him barely registering the new environment.

Now though, he’s noticing the details. There’s wooden floors, a soft rug splayed out in the sitting area, some comfy looking couches, and pictures of unfamiliar people and places dotting the walls. Somehow, he hadn’t expected it to be so _ordinary_.

“I don’t think I’ve given you the tour, have I?” Mr. Westcott asks him as he goes back to lock the entrance behind him and put up his coat.

“No, Sir.”

Mr. Westcott shakes his head, “I’m not going to force you to call me Skip, but I insist that you don’t have to go on saying all this ‘Sir’ stuff. It makes me feel old.”

Guilt flows through Peter, making him backpedal, “Sorry! I don’t mean to be rude.”

A deep chuckle comes from the man, “I’m sure you’re not trying to be.”

When his laughter dies down, he looks Peter dead in the eye, his lips twisting into a smile, “Now, I think it’s about time I show you around the place. And that means I have to explain the rules too.”

Peter’s body wants to freeze under that stare, oddly uncomfortable with it. He forces himself to nod, though, “Ok.”

“First off, it’s plenty warm in here. You don’t need that heavy jacket with you. You can put it up on this coat hanger.” He points to where he’s already placed his own coat.

Peter is quick to unzip his jacket and shake it off, hanging it on a hook. He feels oddly bare without it.

“Our shoes are left by the door so that we don’t drag in mud or snow.” Mr. Westcott slips his boots off and Peter follows suit. They place them on a shoe rack near the entrance.

Mr. Westcott starts heading towards another part of the house, gesturing for the boy to follow, “Alright, follow me. I’ll explain the rest of the rules as I show you around the house.”

They make there way into a kitchen, which is also much more normal than Peter had anticipated. He doesn’t exactly know what he thought the kitchen would be like, but this isn’t it. Its counters are clean with kitchen appliances dotted around and a fruit bowl lying out. The fridge has papers and pictures pinned to it with colorful magnets. There’s even a few children’s drawings hung up. The table has enough room for multiple people.

“I’ll be doing the cooking, but you’re free to make something for yourself if you want. All I ask is that if you make a mess, you clean it up yourself.”

“Yes Si- I mean, alright. I will.”

Mr. Westcott nods in approval, “Good, I’m sure you’re a polite boy, Peter. I think you’ll do fine with that rule. Alright, through this door is the laundry room.” He guides him through a closed door and into a smaller room.

Peter’s apartment doesn’t have a laundry room. They get there’s done at a laundromat from down the street. But even he knows that having both two washers and dryers isn’t the norm. He guesses that they’re because group homes need to be able to accommodate a lot of people.

Mr. Westcott gestures to a white basket, “This will be your laundry basket. All you have to do is fill up your clothes into it and I’ll wash them.”

“You will?” Peter asks, surprised, “I can do them if you want.”

The man’s lips turn down, leaving Peter with the distinct impression that he did something wrong, “Now don’t get me wrong Peter, I trust you. But these machines are expensive and they’ve broken in the past because some kids used them wrong. So I’ll be doing laundry.”

“O-Okay, I understand.”

Mr. Westcott flashes him a smile, his voice taking on a teasing tone, “If I were you I’d be happy someone else was doing the grunt work around here. Kids these days are never grateful for that kind of stuff.”

Peter shakes his head fervently, his hands waving around frantically as he apologizes, “No, that’s not what I mean! I just thought… Well, never mind. Thank you for this.”

“I’m just joking with you, Peter. Come on, I’ve got more to show you.”

He leads them back out to the living room and through the rest of the bottom floor. The teen commits the floorplan to memory, mapping out every room in his mind. When they get to Mr. Westcott’s home office a question pops up in Peter’s mind.

“Excuse me?” Peter asks.

“Yes?”

Peter looks around the study, taking in the desk and the bookshelves lining the walls, “What do you work as exactly? I’m just curious.”

Mr. Westcott hums in understanding. Then he moves to lean against his desk, hands clasping together and gaze trained down. For a moment he’s silent, and when he looks up Peter sees that he's grown serious. There's sadness in the way his head is bowed and how his dark grey eyes look far away, “Well, I suppose you could say that I’m a psychologist. I used to work as a youth therapist, but after years of seeing so much mental scarring in such young people, I decided to take a more hands on approach. That’s why I became a foster parent, so I could try to stop child trauma from becoming too severe.”

Peter feels his heart ache and buzz with warmth at the same time. Out of everything he thought Mr. Wescott would say, it wasn't that.

‘_That’s… That’s actually really nice._’

“Wow… You sound like a really good guy, Mr. Westcott.” Peter can’t help but let a little admiration seep into his tone.

“Thank you, Peter. Unfortunately, some people don’t see it that way.” Mr. Westcott sighs, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

Confusion clouds his mind for a moment, causing the boy’s eyebrows to furrow and his head to tilt to the side in question, “What do you mean?”

Suddenly, the man’s expression darkens. His eyes growing just the smallest bit narrower and his mouth twitching down into a frown.

It's not a violent look, nor an angry one. No, it's something the teen has never seen before. But somewhere, deep within him, is an ingrained instinct that tells him to run.

Instead, Peter's limbs lock up under his gaze, his legs refusing to move even as Mr. Westcott stands up to his full height, and takes a single step towards Peter. A warning whines in the back of his mind and his heart begins to beat faster.

“Have you noticed how quiet and empty this house is?” Mr. Westcott asks. His tone isn’t dangerous and it doesn’t send his senses haywire, but there is something about it that makes Peter very worried.

He tries to remember his tour through the house. Now that he thinks of it, the coat hanger only had two jackets on it - Mr. Westcott's and his own. There weren’t any dishes stacked up in the sink, nor any laundry baskets full in the laundry room. He hasn’t even heard a single person in this house but the man in front of him and himself. But… this is supposed to be a group home, isn’t it? Shouldn’t there be signs of other kids?

“W-why? There’s no one else here?” Peter asks, trying desperately to hide his nervousness.

Mr. Westcott takes another step towards him, “A year ago I was fostering a boy who wasn’t much younger than you are. He came from a rough home and had a lot of issues. Sadly, I wasn’t able to heal them…”

Peter feels a sick sensation grip him, “What happened?”

At this, the man looks at him with piercing, dark gray eyes. They feel as though they’re burning a hole into Peter. He takes another step towards the teen, so close that their bodies are almost brushing against each other.

“He went and said awful things about me. Things that weren’t true.” He pauses for a second, looking down at his ward with a critical gaze. Peter shrinks under him and after a tense moment he continues, “The courts ruled that he wasn’t mentally sound and his accusations were false. The poor boy had a complete breakdown. He’s in a psychiatric hospital right now, getting the help he needs.”

Peter doesn’t speak, he barely even breathes. His mind whirls with a million things to think about, yet with Mr. Westcott staring at him he finds that he’s unable to concentrate on a single one of them.

“Yet some people still believe him. And it was only recently that I was allowed to foster again. So right now, it is just you and me.”

That statement scares Peter for reasons he doesn’t understand.

“You won’t be like that boy, will you, Peter?” This time, Westcott’s words are slow and with a tone that can almost be considered kind or comforting. His face appears hopeful and open, maybe even fragile. It makes Peter’s hairs stand up on end.

The office around him has long since faded away, replaced with only the image of Mr. Westcott standing over him. Their breathing sounds so loud in his ears. Peter wonders if the other man can hear his heart thumping. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat and he suddenly becomes aware that his hands are shaking with tiny tremors. The silence roars in his ears.

After a long, quiet moment, he finally answers, “N-No.”

And instantly, that approving smile returns and Mr. Westcott retreats back, leaving Peter’s personal space, “Good.”

The boy takes in a shuddering breath as his muscles slowly loosen and his stance slouches in exhaustion. But even as his body relaxes his mind becomes alert.

‘_What was that? What just happened?_’ His jumbled thoughts come to a quick silence, though, when Mr. Wescott speaks up again.

“You know kid, you really are smart. And I think I’ve got the perfect nickname for you too."

The man is silent for a moment, as if waiting for Peter to asks what it is He doesn't seem phased when the boy doesn't speak up. In fact, his lips curl up, his eyes taking on a warm quality to them, "_Einstein_ sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?”

Mr. Wescott doesn’t wait for an answer before turning away and walking out the office door. After a torn moment of uncertainty, Peter reluctantly forces himself to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who wished me luck on my exams! I did very well! :)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter. It was very fun to write, but also my heart is hurting. Skip is a terrible person and I hate that I have to write his character as anything but that. But the worst people are the ones you don't suspect. Poor Peter... But at least he has his friends with him!
> 
> Next up, we get another glance at life in The Center!


	11. The Consequences Of Contravention

During the entire ride back to The Center no words are passed between him or Mr. Hogan. He isn’t really sure whether to be thankful for that or not. 

Truthfully, he’s not sure he’d be able to talk to the man. Especially when they start driving through New York City, _his_ city. 

The entire time his eyes stay glued onto the buildings which soar high above them, his heart aching to touch the familiar towers of steel and glass. Blinking lights, constant honking, and the unending thunder of footsteps sound like music to his ears after so long. Peter feels his senses ache, his mind burning with the overload of information, but he grits his teeth and suffers through it. It has been a long time since he’s had a chance like this.

One two three four… 

Two hundred… 

Two hundred thirty…

Two hundred thirty one.

That’s how long he’s been watching his city from afar, framed by metal bars in a too small cell. With a rush of misery Peter’s throat chokes up and his eyes prickle with traitorous tears. With a quick hand he wipes them away and turns his head from Mr. Hogan’s view.

Through the window he gazes at the thousands of people who walk free in fresh air, and talk without anyone there to silence them. Their faces pass by and, desperate for a distraction, Peter begins to catalog them. There's a tall man with thin features, an old woman with long hair, and a child with green eyes. Hundreds of strangers are given his attention for one second, only to be dismissed in the next. It doesn’t take too long before a pattern forms in Peter’s mind, with certain people getting more than just one glance. His eyes stick on the younger people, and sometimes he will see familiar faces where there are none. With each block the car passes, Peter feels his heart strain under a desperation he doesn’t understand.

But it isn’t long before he figures it out. With a start Peter realizes that he's not just observing, he's _searching_ the crowds. Specifically for two people.

'_Your friends aren’t here, you know that. You _want_ that. Would they even want to see you anymore?_'

It feels like a slap to the face, and Peter bitterly decides to stop playing this game.

But without a distraction he's left with absolutely nothing to take his mind off of The Center. After all, the traffic can only delay the inevitable for so long. And as they pass each street and into the outskirts of Brooklyn, Peter’s chest is filled with heavy lead. If he could, Peter might just freeze time in this moment, or maybe even reverse it by a few minutes so he could relive this car ride over and over again. Anything to not have to face what’s in front of him. But of course he can’t, because he’s been cursed with spider powers, not mastery over the laws of fundamental physics.

Then the car takes a left turn, and there it is in the distance, right in front of him. It’s a large compound of squat, rectangle buildings made from brick that’s been falling apart for decades. A huge expanse of barbed fence surrounds the entire property, and is only broken up by the two guard towers that watch over the front and back entrances. Mr. Hogan drives the car to the back entrance, the same one that Peter had left from only three days ago. Although the process for getting out of The Center had been nerve wracking, it was nothing like the pressure he feels when getting back in. 

Mr. Hogan stops at a gate guards command and rolls down his window.

“Good morning, Sir.” A guard says as she looks into the car, her curious gaze settles on Peter for a moment before flicking back to the man, “What are you here for today?”

Mr. Hogan grabs some paperwork that was resting on the dashboard and hands it to the officer, “I’m a representative of the September Foundation. The Fall Conference has ended so I’m here to return Peter Parker back to Crossroads Center.”

The woman takes the stack of papers and quickly flips through them. She looks up to Peter, her expression skeptical, even critical. The teen squirms under her gaze and out of habit he presses his nails to the palm of his hand, _hard_. He focuses on the pain instead of the way the guard is looking at him.

“The Stark Industries Program, huh? Very impressive… Although I didn’t know they worked with delinquents.” She comments, and Peter can’t shake the way she says it. Despite the words, there isn’t anything impressed about that tone.

The guard reaches to her radio, unclipping it from her uniform and clicking it on, “I’ve got a Harold J. Hogan down here at gate B, requesting to drop off Peter Benjamin Parker.”

For a moment the walkie talkie does nothing more than spew out static, but after a few more seconds it crackles on again and out comes a garbled voice, “Bring them on in and direct them to processing.”

“Yes, sir.” The guard puts away her radio and hands the stack of papers back to Mr. Hogan, “You two have been cleared. Now just drive down this path and into the first lot on your right.”

She points out the directions before turning around without another word and stepping into the tower, the door swings shut behind her. Then a loud buzzer shrills and the fence rolls aside with a rattle. For a second the teen’s fear takes over and he entertains the thought of running. But it’s nothing more than that, just a thought. The gash on his leg still hasn’t fully healed, not to mention that he still has the ankle bracelet locked firmly in place And if he managed to run fast enough to lose the cops, and was able to take off the vibranium tracker, he would still have nowhere to go.

Of course, Peter wouldn’t run even if he could. Because in the end there was always that horrible truth that he deserved to be here.

And as they pull into the compound Peter forgets all about running. His legs feel weighed down and his breathing constricts as if his very lungs were wrapped in webbing. The main building, the one where he eats, sleeps, and lives 24/7 looms in front of him. Peter watches the area wearily, as though the very building itself is to be distrusted. Mr. Hogan pulls into the compound and into the parking lot before putting the car into park and turning around to face him.

“Alright, I need to take the tracker off of you now. Put your leg up.”

Peter awkwardly moves his foot until it’s propped up high enough for Mr. Hogan to reach it. Then he rolls up the hem of his pant leg, revealing the thick metal bracelet

The bodyguard is quick to unlatch the tracker, its green light changing into red as it clicks open and falls off of him. Mr. Hogan puts the device away, placing it in a metal case that Peter realizes must be it’s charging port.

Idly, Peter wonders just how long the tracker can function without being charged.

But then he’s pulled out of his thoughts when a thick metal door swings open outside, it squeals on it’s rusted hinges and grates at his nerves. Out comes two officers, one of which Peter recognizes as Officer Morales. They make their way to the car, and with each step they get closer Peter’s heart beats harder and harder.

And then they open the door and he’s being pulled out of the car and onto his feet by an officer. At first he stumbles, feeling the throb of his wound race up his leg, but he pushes his way through the pain and focuses on correcting his walk. He doesn’t need anyone getting curious about a limp. The less weakness, the better. It does take a couple awkward hobbles before the limp is almost unnoticeable, but Peter is satisfied that no one else can see it.

As soon as the car door shuts behind him Mr. Hogan is driving away. 

A sick version of Déjà vu twists it’s way into him like a knife as he’s placed in cuffs and led towards the building that towers above him, casting him in a dark shadow. It makes him feel so, so small as he’s walked through the door with chains on his wrists and two cops on each side. Then he’s inside and Officer Morales turns around to shut and lock the door behind them, leaving Peter trapped in The Center once more.

He doesn’t bother to pay attention to the hallways they walk through, or the turns they make. It all passes by in a blur of white halls and unlabeled doors. It isn’t until they arrive into the Processing room that he starts to take note of his surroundings.

His eyes scan the room around him. The high barred windows let in only slivers of light, the tiled floor is scuffed with stains that could never be washed away, and the brick walls are rough and undeniably solid. Resting on a bench to the side of the room is a metal bin with the numbers 3042. 

The atmosphere is cold and the air is dry and oppressive, leaving Peter to hunch into himself. Memories of his first time in this room come back to him and an unpleasant feeling settles into his gut. Back then he had been filled with fear, almost nausea, but that initial fear has long since faded. Unease is still buried in his chest though, but that feeling is always present in The Center.

“Alright kid, step into the middle of the room. Hold your hands out and your feet at shoulders width. Don’t move.” A tired voice commands from behind him. Peter follows the orders, his mind training on the two men in the room with him. Morales stands in front of the door that leads back outside, the other one walks up to him

When a pair of hands start patting him down the teen has to resist flinching. Peter becomes hyper aware of the officers movements, tracking them with clear focus. His breath is stuck in his throat and his shoulders painfully tense. 

Tough eyes carefully examine every fold and pocket of his clothing and their hands are just as thorough. The guards are quick and professional as they search him for what feels like hours. They are looking for a weapon that isn’t there, and never will be, yet are prepared for anyways.

No, not just prepared. They’re _expecting_ it. That same expectation for the worst never leaves, especially not in here, it seems to trail behind all the inmates like a physical chain.

And then the search ends just as quickly as it began, and Peter is being handed something very familiar. In his grasp is his uniform, a white long sleeve shirt, a navy blue overshirt with his Center number on it, black pants, and standard shoes. All the other inmates wear this same uniform, the only thing that changed between them is the number on their backs.

“Go to the stall to change.” The officer orders, before taking out a key and undoing his cuffs.

Peter nods and heads to a stall that would give him just enough privacy to change. The door doesn’t lock, of course.

With more than a little reluctance Peter pulls his shirt over his head, then his jeans go next, and finally his strips off his old shoes. Chilled air brushes against his bare body and goosebumps rise across his skin. He shivers and is quick to grab the uniform and throw it on.

When Peter walks back into the main room the guard is holding out the metal bin, and Peter resists the urge to sigh as he places his favorite, and only, clothes into it. Funny how things so simple can become so valuable like that.

The guard takes his things and turns around without another word, leaving to put them in storage. It’s then that Officer Morales steps up, “Come on, kid, lets get you to your class.” The man says, gesturing for him to follow as he leads them down to the Education Center.

“Oh, okay.” Peter mutters, a little surprised.

‘_Class. I completely forgot about that._’

A part of Peter can’t really believe that the last few days really happened. After all, how could something so amazing just end like this? With him back at The Center as if nothing had actually happened? The white walls and dim ugly lights are the same as always. The linoleum floor is still scuffed with the marks of hundreds of kids. He can hear the sounds of murmuring inmates and the occasional shout drift out from the classrooms they pass, unaffected by the weight of the Avenger’s actions.

And isn’t that crazy? _Him_, Peter Parker, fought the Avengers and now he’s just going back to class, like everything is normal. Well, maybe not normal, but his own definition of normal.

“So, a Stark internship, huh?” Officer Morales says, bringing Peter out of his thoughts.

Peter glances at him from the corner of his eye, watching him carefully. There’s no hidden venom in the man’s voice, not like the gate guard, so after a beat he nods, “Yeah.”

“That’s really good, Mr. Parker. My son wants to try for that in a few years. He’s a little too young now, but has a brain larger than his body.” Morales’ words are warm and pride lights up his eyes, leaving him with a faint smile on his otherwise wearied face.

Peter’s chest aches as he looks at that expression, which is so much like Uncle Ben’s used to be.

“That’s good.” Peter forces the words out.

Silence settles on the two, and the teen wonders if that’s the end of the conversation. But then the officer looks down at him with an unreadable gaze, “Some people in life get mixed up with the wrong crowd when they’re young. Then they never leave and end up in and out of prison. Those people waste their lives.” 

The way the man says it, with barely disguised frustration, makes Peter watch the man more closely. There’s no buzz from his Spidey sense, so at least the anger isn’t directed at him. But that doesn’t change the way Peter holds himself, the way he’s ready to spring away like a deer in headlights. Some would call him paranoid, but he refuses to take chances anymore.

Before he got put in The Center he had been taught a very useful lesson. If a person had a gun in their hands, no matter what side they were on, you best be prepared for them to pull the trigger on you. Peter wishes he had taken that advice to heart before it was too late.  
  
But in the end Morales doesn’t set off his Spidey sense once, “Kid, you be good for just a little longer and get out of here. Then I don’t want to see you back. You got that?”

Out of all the things Peter expected the man to say, it wasn’t that, and it takes him a second to nod.

“Yes sir.”

And then they’re in front of a classroom for his first subject of the day, Algebra, which happens to be taught by the least enthusiastic teacher Peter has ever had.

Officer Morales opens the door and places a hand on his back, firmly guiding him into the room. The talking in the class lulls when he enters, people looking up at him with surprise then curiosity.

“Nice to see you back, Mr. Parker. Please have a seat.” The teacher says.

Peter makes his way to his chair and sits down. The other students watch him and begin to mutter to each other. It’s almost ironic how similar this is to Midtown, at least in the way rumors spread and how the other kids stare. It won’t be long before he’s being asked where he was, after all, people don’t just _leave_ The Center. 

Peter can only hope that the rumors haven’t spread too much.

==========

It turns out that word does spread fast and far. Everywhere Peter had turned people were staring and asking about where he had been. So there goes any plans of lying low in here, at least for the next couple days. But for now he’s able to relax because he’s not around any of the other inmates. He’s in a quiet and unassuming office, one that wouldn’t be out of place in a normal school. There are posters hung up on the walls with cheesy inspirational quotes, shelves full of books, filing cabinets stuffed to the brim, and a cluttered desk stacked with paperwork. It’s warmer in here than it is in the inmate’s quarters, and that alone makes him enjoy all his time spent in this room.

There’s only two things out of place here. The officer standing just outside the door, and a small plaque on the desk that reads: Juvenile Corrections Counselor - Ashley Kafka

In front of Peter is Doctor Kafka herself, a dark skinned woman with tightly pinned up hair. Her glasses rest low on her nose as she reads something on her computer. Whatever it is, it makes the corners of her mouth turn up ever so slightly and her posture to straighten.

“I must say, Peter, I’m very impressed. Although not surprised. I’ve just received an email from Stark Industries with a glowing review of your work with them, which in itself is a big accomplishment. And when I was contacted by The September Foundation I just knew it had to be about you. You’re very smart after all and at the top of your class here.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Peter flushes at the rare praise.

She hums in acknowledgement before continuing, “Of course, that’s to be expected. Midtown is a very prestigious school, and from your records it appears that you were already leagues ahead of your fellow classmates there.”

Peter feels a stab in his gut at the thought of his old school and doesn’t respond.

Doctor Kafka doesn’t take offense though, “There’s a lot of potential in you. Especially now that Stark Industries has taken notice. I know you’ve expressed concerns that you’ll have trouble finding academic work, or even higher education, once you get out. Well, hopefully this can put your fears to rest.”

Despite her reassurances, Peter knows better. There’s no guarantee that SI will hire him later on, because no matter how much he wants it to be real, the ‘internship’ is just a fraud. There’s not even a solid guarantee that he’ll be called on for Spiderman duties, or that he’ll be getting paid for them at all if he is.

But then again, why else would Mr. Stark give him a suit? 

Peter isn’t an optimist and hasn’t been for a long time, so while sees Mr. Stark as a good person he knows that the man didn’t spend millions on him out of pure kindness. He’s an investment. Although what that exactly means isn’t clear yet.

Peter says none of that and instead settles on a lie, speaking almost as if to convince himself. “It does. I feel better now.”

Her black eyes look at him over the rim of her glasses, far more perceptive than the teen would like. When she speaks it’s in a demanding voice, the stern and patient type that is hard to refuse. “The truth, Peter.”

Peter lets out a tired breath and slumps into his chair, looking everywhere but at her. Of course, he can’t lie to Doctor Kafka, he never has been able to. It’s a well known fact among the inmates that nothing can get past her. Not your fears, your hatred, nor your desires.

“Ok,” He admits bitterly with a shrug of his shoulders, “I don’t think anyone wants me. Why would they? There’s a lot of smart kids out there, and most of them have better records than me.”

She leans back in her chair, her face the picture of calm as she patiently waits for Peter to finish. When he does she simply nods, “That’s true. There are hundreds of up and coming scientists that don’t have any convictions.”

Peter’s heart sinks.

“But,” She breaks in, “You’re not completely helpless. Don’t forget that the odds were against you to begin with long before you came here. But you were still able to do so much with just your mind. You had no money, no fancy tech, or a college education. Yet you were still able to create some incredible things.”

The teen frowns as an acid thought bubbles up to the surface. That horrible, internal voice gnaws away at him, growing stronger, ‘_Yeah, and how many of those incredible things did you abuse? You promised May that you wouldn’t use your mind to hurt people. You promised yourself that you wouldn't use your powers that way either._’

Frustration swells in Peter and for a fleeting moment his fists curl up, a large part of him wants to yell, maybe even cry. To hit something and to get hurt. That voice has been plaguing him for months, reminding him of all the things he’s done and can’t change. And in here, where there are long stretches with nothing to occupy the mind, it is a constant companion.

‘_How did things get so messed up?_’

“Peter.” A gentle voice prods.

And it’s then Peter notices the moisture in his eyes, the tightness of his balled up hands and the shuddering of his shoulders. With that realization, he blinks away the bleariness and tries his hardest to get his body to still before looking up at her expectantly.

Doctor Kafka’s expression softens, but her eyes are trained on him as if she could see things in him that he couldn't. Her gaze doesn’t often lose that perceptive glint and Peter likes to imagine that this is how it would feel if he ever met Professor X. The teen wonders just what the woman sees when she looks at him.

“Would you mind telling me something Peter? Only if you feel comfortable of course.” She says.

Peter’s eyebrows crease together and he bites his lip, “O-okay. What is it?” He asks. A little remaining aggravation manages to leak into his tone and he cringes.

If Doctor Kafka noticed this, which Peter is almost sure she did, then she doesn’t show it. Instead, she leans forward, keeping her face passive and her shoulders relaxed. “What do you think you have learned from your time here?”

“That breaking the law is bad?” He weakly guesses.

“That’s true. But what else is there?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, not sure what to answer with. It takes some time for him to get his thoughts in order and she doesn’t press him. So, Peter thinks back to the very beginning, searching for the moment where it went wrong. It’s not the first time he’s look back on the past year, trying again and again to pin the cause of all this, and he doubts this will be the last time either.

Maybe it started with that field trip to Oscorp, maybe when his uncle died, or did things start going south after he let the killer drop to his death? No, he’s almost certain it all went wrong with that car crash. Because that’s when he ended up with Skip and things only got worse from there. Then he got trapped in a spiral he couldn't escape from and inevitably landed here.

The Doctor often told him that he shouldn’t have had to go through it alone, that he should have gone to the authorities or any trusted adult. Maybe that’s what she wanted him to say?

“I… I should trust people more?” Peter asks, hesitant.

Her smile widens, telling him he said the right thing. But then she looks at him appraisingly and Peter get’s the impression that she’s not quite done with him, “And do you believe that?”

No.

“Yes.” He says.

But of course, no one can lie to Doctor Kafka, “It’s okay if you don’t, Peter. That’s why we’re here, so you can get better.”

‘_No, I’m here because a jury said I was a danger to society._’ Peter decides not to share this with the woman.

“Yes ma’am, I know.”

She nods and straightens in her seat, “That’s good. Of course, rehabilitation doesn’t just take place in a correctional institute. It can take many forms and I believe you’re ready for your next step.”

This catches Peter’s attention, and his eyes dart up to meet her’s. That can mean only one thing, “Parole…?” Peter whispers, hopeful.

She gives him a smile, a genuine one as if she were sharing in his excitement, “Yes, that’s right. You’ve been on your best behavior since you’ve got here. No writes up, no fights, no contraband. And with this recent development with Stark Industries I’m confident that you’re ready to be reintroduced to society. So, I’ve sent in a good word to the Probation Offices.”

Peter can’t help it, his face breaks into a grin and he nearly starts to bounce in his seat. This is incredible! First his trip with Tony Stark to Germany, and now parole?

Doctor Kafka grabs a folder from her desk and pulls a slip of paper from it. She reaches over her desk to give it to him. 

“You can keep that.” She says. 

She lets him take a moment to study the paper in his hand. On the top is the title, “ Parole Rehabilitation” and below is a long list of things expected from him, both before he gets out and after.

“Now of course, you’ll need to be placed into a new group home until we can find you a suitable foster home. You will have a curfew, you will need to abide by house rules, and are required to meet with your parole officer once a week. Twice a month you will meet with me to see if there are any changes that need to be made to your rehabilitation program. Am I clear?”

“Yeah, I-I mean yes. I understand.” Peter would happily do anything to get out of here.

“Well, if all goes well you should be out of here in December, a full three months earlier than your release date. Congratulations Peter!” 

Doctor Kafka stands up and extends her hand and Peter takes this as his cue to leave. He springs up from his seat and grasps her hand, shaking it quickly before turning to the door with a bounce in his step.

He’s about to open it when she speaks up again, “Oh, and Peter?”

He turns back to her, head tilting in confusion, “Um… yes?”

“I’ve recently noticed that you’ve got a lot of anger pent up.” Her tone could easily be mistaken as conversational, but there’s a soberness in it that tells Peter he should listen, and listen well.

He nods a little wearily. She wouldn’t threaten to take away his parole so soon, would she? The very thought sends him panicking. Peter would hate himself forever if it was taken away just because he couldn’t cope.

Thankfully, her words aren’t threatening, only helpful. “I suggest you burn off some of that aggression during recreational time. Maybe run some laps around the field or exercise in other ways. A good game of sports with the other children couldn’t hurt either, as long as it won’t cause conflict.”

Peter resolves to keep those games limited. His roomate Quincy might have been a good person to play against, but there’s plenty of kids who take it too seriously. A memory of Rodriguez getting into a shouting match with another inmate over a round H-O-R-S-E comes to mind, and Peter mentally adds the teen to a list of people not to play against.

“Ok, I’ll try.” Peter says.

“Just remember to keep up this good behavior. You don’t need anything to get in the way now.” Doctor Kafka says, pushing her glasses up and looking at him sternly. The warning is loud and clear, be even more careful now than before.

“Yes, ma’am. I will.” Peter promises.

“Good, now go on. Lunch Break is almost over and you still need time to eat.”

Peter steps back to the door, opening it and stepping out of the office. He’s met with a guard who takes him by his arm. 

The Doctor follows him out and gives him one last smile before she speaks to the guard, “Take Mr. Parker back to the cafeteria. Then bring Aaron Myers down to me, I still need to speak to him about his fight on Tuesday.”

The man nods and Doctor Kafka heads back into her office to prepare for Aaron. Peter remembers him as the new kid - the one who beat up Rodriguez on his first day - and feels a wave of sympathy wash over him. The counselor can be scary when she wants to be, and he has no doubt that he’ll be facing her wrath. Poor kid.

But for now he focuses his mind on his own life. After all, he has a lot to think about after today.

==========

“Everyone line up, it’s time to get back to your cells.” A guard shouts above the noise of the Rec Room.

Peter puts down his book carefully, making sure not to destroy the damaged pages and spine. It must have been decades old and overdue to be replaced, but no one had bothered and it stayed on the public shelves long past it’s time. There were some pages that were completely ripped out, yet Peter didn’t care. He must have read nearly every book in The Center’s library, and he wasn’t very choosy anymore considering the small selection.

At the very least, the book had given him a distraction from the constant questions from his fellow inmates. It had taken half the day for him to stop being questioned and even longer for the shameless staring to fizzle out. 

Of course, Peter didn’t give away the fact that Tony Stark himself picked him up. He didn’t even tell anyone that he’d been given a Stark Industries ‘internship’. That would draw too much attention. So instead he’d lied his way through the day, just saying enough about his new ‘work opportunities’ for everyone to be satisfied.

He places the book on the shelf and then heads to where a loose line is forming. It takes a while for the hundreds of boys to get through the large doors and into the corridor, where they’re being funneled into their Cell Blocks. Along the walls are guards, who watch them like hawks. The boys don’t make much noise, maybe a mutter or two is passed between people but other than that they keep silent.

Peter slowly makes his way to block C, his block, and up the stairs to the second level. He passes by dozens of open cells until he is eventually able to slip into his own. The teen walks over to his cot and lets his feet give out under him, sinking down onto the tough mattress. The old springs creak under his weight as he sits down. 

The first thing he does is pull out the Parole Rehabilitation paper, which he had tucked into the waistband of his uniform. Then he grabs a small roll of tape from a communal shelf, which the entire cell had to share. The tape was technically owned by one of his cellmates, who was able to buy it at the commissary. However, he let the rest of them use it as long as they didn’t piss him off. This happens to be a wonderful way to get kids to respect you in The Center.

Peter rips off a few pieces and uses them to hang up his parole paper, right along with his hand drawn Periodic Table, and a picture of the New York City skyline that he had ripped out of a magazine. He also had a cut out of an article from The Bugle that denounced Spiderman, which he had horribly vandalized. None of his cell mates understood why he found it so funny, but that just made it better in Peter’s opinion.

There were no letters up on the wall, nor any pictures of his friends and family. No one asked why that was, and Peter didn’t give them an explanation either.

Finally, Peter then settles down to wait for the other three inmates who occupy cell forty. It takes a good five minutes before one kid comes in, followed by another. The last one to make it in is Quincy, who smiles when he sees Peter.

The other teen waves to him as he goes to sit on his own bed, which is right across from Peter’s.

“Hey man, I haven’t seen ya in a while. For a second there I thought they’d shipped you off to be executed.” Quincy says with a teasing grin planted on his face.

“Heh… Yeah, they tried, but I was just too hard to kill.” Peter jokes back. It’s not even a lie, the rogue Avengers _did_ try to kill him, or at least gravely injure him.

“For real though, rumor is that you’ve got yourself a nice little job lined up for you when you get out of here. That’s pretty sweet.”

“Mhm, I do.” Peter feels a sudden throb of pain from his leg which is still wrapped in bandages, reminding him of just how sweet this new job is.

“Well?” Quincy prods eagerly. His hands wave around animatedly as he leans forward, “What is it?”

Peter rolls his eyes at his antics, “It’s nothing special, really. Just some hands on work for some company here in New York.”

Also not a lie. Spiderman is very hands - and webs - on, and although SI is a global wide company its headquarters are located in the city.

Quincy opens his mouth to speak again, only to be cut off by the Warden entering the room. Instantly everyone goes silent. Quincy and Peter shoot to their feet while the two kids on the top bunks drop down. They keep their backs straight and their hands at their sides.

The warden scans the room until his eyes land on Peter’s new wall decoration.

“Doctor Kafka cleared you for parole, Mr. Parker?” He asks, voice gruff but not unkind.

“Yes Sir.”

The warden gives him a small nod, “Good job.”

“Thank you Sir.” Peter says, trying hard to hide his surprise. In all his time here the warden has never complimented him, instead preferring to remain tough on his charges. And truthfully, those two words mean more to him than he would ever admit.

The man gives the room one last look before giving them the okay, “Light’s go out in twenty minutes.”

It’s only after he leaves the room, shutting the heavy door behind him and locking it in place, that the four boys in the room collectively relax.

The kid who sleeps on his top bunk - an older teen that has almost aged out of the Juvenile System - gives him a strong pat on the back that would have knocked him over if he weren’t enhanced. “Hey, good for you Parker! But I ain’t really surprised, you’re so damn straight laced that I can’t really believe you’re here in the first place.”

The other inmate - the one who owns the tape - laughs, “Yeah, I mean, what the hell did you do? Steal some food to feed some orphans?”

Quincy snorts as he climbs back into his bed, “Shuddup you two. Just because ya’ll screwed up badly doesn’t mean Peter’s gotta. And who knows? Maybe he did rob in the name of helping the needy?”

‘_No, no I didn’t, I didn’t help a single soul._’

“Yeah, whatever. You can be as much of a goody two shoes as you want, I don’t really care.” His bunkmate yawns as he hauls himself up and onto the top cot, “You do you and all that jazz.”

“Yeah, what those two said.” The other teen plops himself onto his own top bunk, the one above Quincy, and promptly rolls over to fall asleep.

Just like the others, Peter doesn’t bother to take off his shoes as he gets into bed. The fall air is too cold for that and wasting any warmth is a stupid decision. So he pulls the coarse covers over himself as he is and tries to get comfortable.

However, his senses never let him feel quite at rest. On top of the frigid weather and the rough texture of his bed, there’s always some level of danger around him. Maybe it comes from the inmates or even the guards, but the buzzing from his Spidey sense is rarely ever absent. It keeps him awake long into the night and leaves him always tired.

So even when the lights go out at 8:30, like they do every day, Peter Parker is still wide awake.

Eventually, his cell mates go to sleep, their breathing slowing and evening out. There’s even some faint snoring coming from the bunk above him. The night is cloudy today, so no moonlight shines through the barred windows, leaving Peter in a thick darkness that his eyes strain to adjust to. Outside the cell door he can hear the guards talking in low murmurs. There’s a faint aroma of ash too, a telltale sign that the warden is having his nightly smoke.

Maybe an hour passes before Peter hears shuffling from Quincy’s bed. He glances over in the darkness, making out the shifting form of the teenager.

A moment passes in silence and Peter can tell from his breathing that the other inmate hasn’t gone to bed either.

Then the quiet is broken by a tentative whisper, “Hey, Hush Puppy? Are ya still awake?”

Peter hesitates to respond, listening in for a few seconds to see if the others are awake. It isn’t until he’s satisfied that they’re still asleep that he says anything, “Yeah… What is it?”

“What did the guards pull ya out for? You were gone for three days.” Quincy asks.

Peter’s face twists in confusion although he knows the other boy can’t see it, “I already told you.”

A couple seconds pass by again, with no one saying anything. But then Quincy is sighing, and Peter knows that if he could see the boy’s face it would be exasperated, “I mean, what did they _really_ pull ya out for? No job opportunity takes three days, at least not a normal one. If they do, then I’ve been goin’ to very different job interviews than you have.”

Peter had learned early on that Quincy was generally a very nice person. He gives him his breakfast, will strike up conversation, and offer to play a round of pickup to anyone and everyone - although he always beats his opponents into the ground. Another thing about Quincy, which isn’t as easy to see, is that he isn’t stupid. 

The lies Peter has fed to all the other kids won’t work for now.

So he doesn’t bother insisting that he’s got some nameless work ahead of him. Instead, Peter decides to give the boy the cover story that Mr. Hogan gave him, along with a little truth, “Alright. You know how I went to Midtown School of Science and Technology?”

“Yeah, the genius school.”

“It’s not…” Peter starts to say, embarrassed, only to give up and just nod along tiredly, “Okay yeah fine, the genius school. Anyways, I had entered into a Stark Industries competition. Me and some friends worked day in a day out to make a drone that could really do some good.”

“And?” Quincy asks.

“Well, my life kind of took a nosedive before I could… uh… finish it, and now I’m here. I-I really thought that would be the end of it. No more drone and no more chance to impress Stark Industries. Y’know?” Peter frowns to himself and tries to sink further into his blankets. He sincerely hopes that the tremor in his voice is mistaken for exhaustion.

“Not really, but go on.” Quincy says, curious.

“Okay. So on Tuesday I get pulled out of class, and I didn’t know what was going on at all. But then I get to actually meet someone from Stark Industries. A-and it turns out that they’re still interested in me and even though I’m well… yeah.”

“A convict.” Quincy finishes for him.

Peter winces, “Yeah, that. Then I ended up signing some paperwork and I got to tour some really cool SI labs and manufacturing plants. And that's it. I promise that's all it was.”

“Ya serious? Ya swear to God you ain’t joking?”

“No joke.”

Quincy lets out a low whistle, “Damn. That’s some crazy stuff. So you think Stark Industries will want to hire you once you get out?”

“I hope so.” Peter is almost shocked at his own voice, which is thick with a desperation he didn’t expect.

Then the other boy lets out a muffled yawn and finally rolls over so he’s facing away from Peter. For a moment he’s sure that that’s the end of the late night conversation, but Quincy says one last thing, “It looks like things are going up for ya now. Here’s to hopin’ it stays that way. G’night Hush Puppy.”

“Night.”

In a few minutes there’s soft snoring coming from the other bed, and Peter is left alone to his thoughts.

It's close to midnight before he finally manages to drift into unconsciousness. But the cell is too cold for his body to settle into proper sleep. So his night is dreamless, just like so many others before it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: It’s difficult for the body to reach the REM phase of sleep when sleeping conditions are too hot or cold, making it harder to dream. Or at least, that’s what the internet told me!
> 
> Doctor Kafka is a real character within the Spiderman canon btw, look her up, she's pretty cool!
> 
> And just where is Mr. Stark? He needs to hurry up and be a better dad - I mean role model - in Peter's life.
> 
> Have a nice day! :)


End file.
